


As The Night, The Day

by HoldYourHortas



Series: I Will Follow You Into The Dark [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, PTSD, Tarsus IV, The Conscience of the King, it's a sad one, there's a fair amount of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-26 03:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13848726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldYourHortas/pseuds/HoldYourHortas
Summary: In the aftermath of Tarsus IV, James T Kirk had thought he'd left his personal hell behind for good. But after a quick stop at Alpha Carinae V on the way to Starfleet's latest diplomatic assignment, he must face the fact that some demons never die, no matter how deep they are buried.





	1. Chapter 1

Alpha Carinae V was one of many planets just short of idyllic according to human standards. It boasted a delicate purple sky, the best hospitality in the quadrant, and was a cultural art hub amongst their solar system. Acting troupes from the far corners of the galaxy performed in nearly every public space at every time of day, acrobats tumbling in the streets and magicians manipulating colorful scarves; art exhibitions from Andoria, Earth, and even Vulcan lined the streets as one strolled through the cities, a riot of expression guiding tourists on their way. There was no better place for the Enterprise to be for some much-needed shore leave following their resupply stop at the nearby Starbase 15.  Starfleet had ordered them to check in on trade agreements with the Carinaeans before proceeding to Koch III for sorely-needed diplomatic intervention, and ever-more-valuable dilithium crystal mining agreements.  

Jim sipped his Saurian brandy, temporarily haunting the corner of the room and watching the crowd. One thing the travel guide hadn’t mentioned was the parties on Alpha Carinae V, and this one was no exception. Blue and magenta lights swept the group in the center of it all, drinks sloshing over the sides of cups and bodies growing closer as the beat picked up. Once upon a time, Jim would’ve been in the thick of it, probably yelling in another cadet’s ear above the music and drowning the stress of Starfleet exam week with a cup of synthehol or two. An old friend, Dr. Thomas Leighton, had heard the Enterprise was in orbit and promptly invited him and his crew to see a burgeoning acting troupe, the Karidian Players, and attend the afterparty. Spock had elected to stay on the ship, citing a need for meditation. Jim was willing to bet he was holed up with a copy of Surak’s philosophies. Thomas was to his left, swishing the wine in his glass and frowning as a Carinaean artist fell into the bartender.

“How’ve you been, Jim? Starship treating you all right?” Thomas asked. He’d put on weight in the years since Jim had seen him, and was all the better for it. Light played off his dark brown hair and eyes, the white pinstripes on his dark green suit glowing partially under the blacklights.

“She’s the prettiest ship I’ve ever been in, and the crew’s alright,” he said with a grin. “Mr. Spock, my first officer, is one of a kind. How’s the university?”

Thomas downed his glass, then reached for another from a passing tray. “Teach for long enough and the students all run together, though they seem to enjoy astrobiology as much as I do.”

They were silent for a moment, letting the roar of the party wash over them.

“Listen, Jim,” Thomas said. “I didn’t just call you down here for a play and a party.” He glanced around, checking the corners of the room, and ushered Jim to the abandoned drinks table. “Did you notice anything during the play?”

Jim thought back. Mostly, he’d just been focused on not accidentally brushing against Spock in the cramped theatre seats. Their legs had been a hair’s breadth away the entire time, so close Spock’s warmth burned like the desert sun; if Jim relaxed for an instant, they’d’ve been touching.   The Karidian Players had debuted the Bard’s latest, a five-act play following the misadventures of an Andorian merchant stranded on Vulcan. Spock had twitched every time an actor attempted Vulcan so minutely that only someone sitting far too close to him would notice. Jim wouldn’t have been surprised Spock’s eyebrows permanently embedded themselves in the theatre rafters.

“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, Tom.” He took another sip of brandy, mentally replaying the performance. For the few bits he’d actually relaxed enough to pay attention to, it had been pretty entertaining.

Thomas gulped some more wine, steeling himself. “I think Anton Karidian is Kodos.”

Jim nearly dropped his glass. It shook in his hands and he breathed deep, willing his gut to unclench. _Kodos the Executioner._ “Oh?”

Thomas pointed across the room to an older man, with a thick salt and pepper streaked beard. The actor, Karidian, the head of the troupe. His modest indigo robes swished as gestured, telling a story of some sort. He laughed at the gaggle of women surrounding him, some crew members, others merely Carinaeans party-hopping. Deep-set wrinkles folded years across his face and his voice was a lively rasp, nothing like the sonorous voice Jim remembered from Tarsus IV.

“What makes you think it’s him?”

“I don’t know, Jim, that’s the thing. I know a feeling isn’t much to go on, but…” Thomas trailed off, shifting his glass.

“Yeah,” Jim whispered, heart pounding in his ears. He clenched the brandy glass a little tighter, knuckles white. He needed to calm down. There was no evidence yet. If any. He willed his nerves to settle down, mentally reciting the oddest drink orders he’d gotten from his stint as a bartender back in Riverside, before Starfleet. Some of them, he thought, even he would shudder to try; no doubt Spock would be able to calculate all their detrimental effects to the human body.

“Well, Dr. Leighton, I must thank you for the invitation. It’s been a lovely after-party.” They turned to face a petite blond woman, hair piled on top of her head in a mountain of curls, some spilling delicately down her back. Her lilac wrap dress shimmered in the disco lights and she smiled graciously, batting her eyelashes.

Thomas set his glass aside, shaking her hand warmly. “Thank you. May I introduce you to Captain Kirk, an old friend?”

“Lenore Karidian.” She said, extending a gloved hand. “Oh, everyone knows about Captain James Kirk. The Enterprise, is yours, isn’t she, Captain?”

Jim shook her hand, quickly. “No finer ship in the ‘Fleet, Ms. Karidian.” She offered him a champagne flute, which he declined, and Thomas accepted. He’d learned from Bones that paperwork and alcohol seldom mixed well, especially since Spock was sure to have reports to go over once he returned to the ship.

“Lenore, please. I’d love to see her, someday,” she said, flashing a pearly smile. “Of course, the Troupe is headed for Antares next. The prime minister is a fan of Shakespeare, it seems.”

Jim met Thomas’ eyes, still fixated on Karidian himself. There had to be a way to keep an eye on him, and if Karidian really was Kodos, Jim couldn’t let him get away. “Well, Ms. Karidian,” Jim said. “I’m sure Starfleet wouldn’t mind if we gave the Troupe a lift to Antares on our way.”

“That would be most gracious, Captain Kirk.  We’d be delighted to perform for the crew, in return,” Lenore said. “Excuse me, I must attend to my father. He’s looking a little red in the face.” She nodded demurely before disappearing into the crowd as easily as a fish in a stream.

Jim ignored the pit in his stomach, setting his half-empty glass on the drinks table as he flipped open his communicator. Spock would still be awake, and advance warning of unexpected guests never hurt. A hacking sound came from the left of him, then a thud as Thomas fell to his knees. The music ground to a halt, the magenta lights still flickering back and forth across the partygoers as Jim turned him on his back, pumping his chest up and down, grateful for the Starfleet-mandated CPR training. Stunned partygoers gathered around, murmurs breaking into riotous speculation. Jim’s arms began burning, sweat pricking at his neck after a few repetitions, an old Earth song ringing in his head as a guiding beat. Thomas’ ribs splintered under his hands with no reaction at all. The crowd parted as a woman in green took his pulse, shoving Jim away. The color drained from her face and she sat back on her heels, hands pressed against her mouth, holding in tears. His wife, Marla, Jim recalled, a numb feeling creeping up his arms and legs. He wiped his hands on his pants and flipped open his communicator.

“Kirk to Enterprise,” he said.

“Spock here.”

“Send a medical officer down with a tricorder. There’s been a…death.” Thomas’ glassy, fish-like eyes stared into vast nothingness, and Jim’s stomach clenched. He could feel Spock’s silence on the line, the questions that would come all in one glance as soon as he stepped back on board the Enterprise.

“Understood, Captain. Spock out.”

Jim tamped down his unease and began taking notes. The Enterprise and her crew would be busy tonight, as the Enterprise was the closest thing to an investigation unit on Carinae V. The reports would have to wait.

***

When the Captain beamed aboard two hours after requesting the tricorder, Spock did not expect the actors from the night’s performance to follow. Jim was grim in his dress uniform, medals gently clacking with every step. Dark, wet splotches streaked across his legs. A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he didn’t quite meet Spock’s eyes as he helped a petite blond woman in a lilac dress off the transporter platform, the other actors trailing behind her.

“Ms. Karidian, this is First Officer Spock. He’ll direct you and the rest of your troupe to the guest quarters.” Jim’s eyes telegraphed an apology and a promise to get to the reports later.

“How do you do, Mr. Spock,” Ms. Karidian said, extending a hand which Spock ignored, offering the ta’al instead. “And please, Captain, call me Lenore. I’ve told you once or twice now.”  Spock noted the fatigue in Jim’s stance, the slight twitch of his mouth pulling into a frown as he addressed Ms. Karidian. He stepped closer to Jim, eyes widening marginally. He smelled faintly of human blood.

“Captain, I shall meet you in your quarters in half an hour to go over reports.” Jim nodded his acquiescence and left, his shoulders sloping as if he had aged twenty years in twenty hours.

“Right this way, Ms. Karidian.” The troupe trailed Spock out of the transporter room; a slight golden haze shimmered in Spock’s periphery at the edge of the transporter before winking out. Spock frowned marginally. Though he was certain he wasn’t seeing things as a result of exhaustion, Mr. Scott never kept the transporters in anything less than satisfactory condition. He would have to let him know in the morning; this far into space, the slightest malfunction could be deadly, especially concerning the transporter.

The troupe settled with minimal fuss, though Spock had endured more than enough well-meaning claps on the shoulder and ridiculous flourishing bows. He made his way to Jim’s quarters and keyed in the code, taking a moment to straighten his uniform. The doors opened with a hiss to the Captain’s boots tossed haphazardly in the entryway, his dress uniform in an ungainly heap beside them. Three stacks of PADDs balanced precariously on Jim’s desk, one stack approved for filing, the others ready to review. They had early on deemed the desk too small for the both of them to work comfortably on reports and had migrated to the floor.  Spock folded Jim’s dress uniform and set it aside, fingers lingering on the stains. They were dry now, but the stench of alcohol and blood remained. The Captain hadn’t appeared injured when he had beamed back from the party, but from Dr. McCoy’s stories, anything was possible when it concerned Jim Kirk.

“Jim?” He called softly.

Jim lay face-down on his bed, exhaling softly. The blankets were twisted around his ankles, as if he’d intended to take a short rest. He was quite deeply asleep, not even stirring as Spock stepped closer. A cold coffee mug sat on the bedside table. The reports, it seemed, would have to wait until the morning. Spock gently pulled the blanket over Jim, resetting the temperature in Jim’s quarters to his standard preference. Dr. McCoy would be less than pleased had he awoken him, and Spock had to agree. He returned to his quarters through their adjoined bathroom, settling at his computer console to make a call.

It was nearing midnight on the Enterprise, the hum of the engines delicately accompanying the dial tone. Spock listened intently for any sign Jim had woken up, but silence reigned. Mollified, Spock waited for New Vulcan to connect at the other end. The Federation logo faded to reveal an older Vulcan, hair streaked gray, framing the deep lines in his face.

“Ambassador,” Spock said, inclining his head. “I trust I have not awakened you.”

Ambassador Spock smiled slightly. “There is little rest to be had on the colony at the moment. You are not interrupting, though I admit surprise that it is you, and not Jim.”

Spock steepled his hands under his desk, taking a breath. “Indeed. I have called with a…personal matter.”

The Ambassador raised an eyebrow. “Your time has not come, has it? The _Enterprise_ is far from New Vulcan.”

Spock flushed, struggling to school his features back into a neutral expression. He had time before he had to worry about…that. Three years, two months, and seventeen days. Though he had not planned extensively, he was certain he would find a way to endure it. “It is of a different nature entirely, Ambassador.”

The Ambassador immediately sobered as Spock recounted the events on the surface of Alpha Carinae V. When he had finished, the Ambassador leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled. Spock resisted the illogical urge to fidget under his counterpart’s gaze. The expended energy would do nothing to help Jim.

“Spock,” his counterpart intoned. “I do not say this lightly, as knowledge of the future would violate the Temporal Prime Directive. I will only say what I can, what I must.” He looked his younger self in the eyes, and a frisson of fear flashed through Spock’s mind.

“Keep a close eye on the actor Karidian and his daughter.”

Spock nodded, offered the ta’al, and cut the connection, his counterpart’s somber gaze fixed in his mind.

Meditation did not come easy that night.

***

Silence draped the bridge like a mourner’s shawl as the Enterprise sailed through space. Jim sat upright in his chair, staring into the oblivion of stars zipping by at speeds faster than light. Here one moment, gone the next. Uhura’s communications station occasionally pinged with comm updates from around the ship, but nothing else disturbed the silence. Jim scanned the stations around the bridge. Sulu and Chekov were unusually quiet, scrolling through astrogation logs and phaser updates. Uhura sat with a book in Klingon, translating it into Romulan, looking up every now and then at the frequencies on her computer display. Spock met his eyes as he looked up from his scanner, minutely raising an eyebrow.

S _hit._ He’d been a fool to think Spock would simply let the matter of Leighton’s death drop, as much as he hated to admit it. The image of Marla bent over Thomas’ body resurfaced, and Jim repressed the urge to gag as he remembered his face, unnaturally still and eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Jim gripped the arms of his chair tighter, willing his hands to stop shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was the coffee or his stomach’s attempt to mutiny. He stood abruptly, pointedly avoiding Spock’s gaze from the science console.

“I’m going to Sickbay. Spock, you have the conn.”

Jim paused as the turbolift announced Deck 5. He’d heard nothing from the Karidian Troupe this morning; then again, that could be good or bad news. He turned the corner towards Sickbay automatically, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Yes, Ensign—”  he said as he turned, then blinked. “Excuse me, Ms. Karidian. What are you doing by Sickbay? Is the Troupe settling in well?”

Lenore smiled, a bright, small thing. She brushed nonexistent dust off of her lilac gloves. “Please Captain, it’s Lenore. How many times am I going to have to tell you?”

“Lenore, then,” he acquiesced.

“The Troupe’s settled in fine, Captain Kirk. My father wishes to express his appreciation for the Enterprise’s accommodations. She’s a fine ship,” Lenore said. “As for Sickbay, I happen to be doing a thing called _method acting_.” She gestured to the flowing purple gown embroidered in black flowers, similar to the fashions of seventeenth century Earth. Her script glowed on her PADD, purple notes written next to her lines. A basket of flowers and herbs rested at her feet.

“There’s rue for you, and some for me,” she said impishly.

“Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,” Jim said. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” The scent of vanilla followed him down the hallway, Lenore’s recitation echoing slightly in the body of the Enterprise.

Sickbay bustled with life, Nurse Chapel commanding a battalion of junior nurses in formation around engineering ensigns with everything from electricity burns to broken legs from falling down Jeffries tubes. Dr. M’Benga was holed up in a corner of Sickbay, his office door open. Jim spotted a full-size rendition of the Vulcan nervous system overtop a skeleton, which M’Benga was painstakingly gluing together.

“McCoy’s in the back, Captain,” he said around the glue brush clenched daintily in his teeth.

“Thanks, M’Benga,” Jim called. “Don’t swallow any of that glue, though there are plenty of doctors around.”

He stepped into Bones’ office, shutting the door carefully behind him. The desk was immaculate, though stacks of PADDs on the floor threatened to level with the desk soon. An Andorian skull model sat on the shelves behind it alongside several dying spiderwort plants.

“Alas, poor Yorick,” Jim quoted, examining the skull. One tooth was chipped on the end, the upper left canine. He set it down gingerly, turning as Bones tucked a tricorder into his desk drawer.

“Sit down, Jim,” Bones grumbled. “You only quote Shakespeare when something’s eating at you, and if I wanted to hear the Bard, I’d listen to the Karidian Troupe again.” Bones pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Dark circles rimmed his eyes; he’d been up late the night before, autopsying Leighton and taking notes from the emergency tricorder readings. He rubbed a hand across his eyes.

Jim huffed out a dry chuckle and sank into Bones’ singular red armchair. They sat in silence for a moment, letting the air grow still. The sounds of Sickbay filtered through the door.

“It’s still Alpha shift. You didn’t come down here without a reason, Jim,” Bones prodded. His voice was soft, as if one could slip kid gloves over a sound. “What’s the matter?”

Jim sighed, running a hand through his hair, and leaning back in the chair. “Before Tom died, he told me he thought Karidian was Kodos,” he admitted.

“Do you?”

He met Bones’ eyes, sure his internal struggle was evident. Bones had his psych profiles, and he’d come to him weepy and drunk often enough that the man could read him as well as any other. “I don’t know.” Jim rubbed his face, massaging the tension headache away from his temples. “I just don’t know.”

He leaned forward in the chair, suddenly itching to pace, to walk the entire length of the Enterprise and then some. “If I’m right—or, if Tom was right—then great, I’ve got Kodos. But if I’m wrong…if I’m wrong, Bones, then I’ve condemned an innocent actor to death.” The knot in his stomach wound tighter and he briefly closed his eyes against a wave of nausea.

“Well, hold it, Jim, who says death’s the only option?” Bones was serious, now, holding Jim at attention with his gaze. “You don’t have to do anything. You can drop him off at Antares and let the Federation bureaucracy handle it. Besides,” he paused. “You don’t have any evidence.”

And there it was. How does one get evidence of guilt or action for 4,000 murders that happened over a decade ago? Jim could still feel the Tarsus sun on his back, smell the fungus as it crept over fields of crops if he stood still long enough, but that was just a memory, nothing like evidence. He remembered the stench of the town square, packed with almost 8,000 bodies squinting at a lectern on a platform, just barely tall enough to see the dark hair on top of the governor’s head. Still not evidence. And though he thought he’d recognize the timbre of that voice anywhere, the sonorous dispassion as Governor Kodos ordered the death of 4,000 “non-essential” colonists, time had passed. Voices changed. People died. Was it too much to hope that Kodos had died on some deserted planet after Tarsus? Jim resisted the rising bile and tremors in his hands and feet, rigid in the armchair.

“Jim,” Bones said. Jim looked at him, then, naked fear shining in the fluorescent light.

“Bones.” His voice was a rasp.

McCoy’s voice was delicate, tiptoeing around glass on the verge of shattering. “I can declare you emotionally compromised by the mission, if it would help.”

Jim laughed, a harsh, forced sound. He doubted Spock would appreciate the irony if he did accept Bones’ offer. Not that he could, of course. Taking the Troupe to Antares was a favor, not an order. “No thanks, Bones. Spock wouldn’t appreciate the irony.”

Bones raised an eyebrow in passible imitation. “You’ve told him about Tarsus, haven’t you?”

The smile froze on Jim’s face. “I—”

“Jim, this is something he needs to know,” Bones growled. “If you—”

The bosun’s whistle sounded. “Engineering to Sickbay.”

Bones swore and crossed the room to the comm unit on the wall. “What is it, Scotty? If another one of your ensigns has fallen down a Jeffries Tube, I might not fish them out.”

“No, Doctor, it’s a wee bit more serious than that. Ensign O’Neill collapsed just now, an’ he won’t stop screamin’ about devils in the dark. He’s convulsing,” Scotty said.

Bones swore again, grabbing his medkit. “I’ll be right there. McCoy out.” He turned to face Jim. “Look, Jim, you’ve got to talk to Spock some time. He’s your first officer for a reason and as much as I hate to say it, a damn good one.” With that, he rushed out the door, muttering about engineers with no safety protocol to speak of. Chapel’s battalion of junior nurses prepped another biobed.

***

Jim returned to the bridge at the tail end of Alpha shift. The silence had lifted somewhat. Sulu and Chekov joked at the helm, trading bets for the bridge crew poker game that evening.

“Anything new from Starfleet, Uhura?” Jim asked, settling back into his chair.

“Nothing, Captain, though they should be sending orders soon,” she replied.

“Good.” He shifted in his chair for a moment, tapping his boots against the floor before rising again, eventually circling to where Spock sat at the science station. His hair gleamed, not a strand out of place, his uniform immaculate. Jim caught a whiff of the Enterprise’s laundry detergent and aftershave. Spock didn’t turn at his approach, shifting slightly to the side so Jim could see over his shoulder.

“What are you working on?” Jim leaned forward, suddenly all too aware of how close his mouth was to Spock’s ear, to the body heat pouring off of his first officer. He fought the blush rising to his cheeks and cleared his throat.

“I am analyzing the Enterprise’s warp efficiency, Captain,” Spock began, entering lecture mode. He swiveled in his chair to face Jim, who leaned against the console as casually as possible. “Mr. Scott and I theorized that we could possibly reach warp 8 if we…” Jim followed Spock’s explanation, nodding in all the right places and offering comments and his own theories at appropriate moments. Spock’s eyes lit up, or as close as a Vulcan’s expression could get, as he spoke, building off of Jim’s queries. The knot in Jim’s gut eased a little as they talked, though restlessness still tugged at his boots.

“By doing so, the matter and anti-matter chambers would experience less strain. Captain, are you listening?” Spock asked.

Jim jerked back to attention. “Sorry, yes Mr. Spock, go ahead.”

Spock fixed him with a look, examining him for something, though Jim couldn’t say what. “You appear to have an excess amount of energy. Perhaps sparring would be beneficial.”

“Then tonight, our usual spot in the gym? 1800 hours?” Jim asked. Spock nodded. “It’s a date, then.”

They both colored at that, Jim too busy dealing with his blush to notice the one creeping up Spock’s neck. Alpha shift passed by quickly after, some of the liveliness returning to the bridge, though Jim could only fidget in the Captain’s chair and consciously avoid letting his gaze drift towards the science console.

***

By 1700, Jim had deeply considered running the length of the ship just to burn off the nervous energy. His thoughts churned in circles, from Tom’s death to Kodos to Ensign O’Neill’s collapse. The pile of PADDs still teetered on his desk from the night before. He’d attempted to read through a report from Sciences on a new form of fungus found on Gamma Ceti III but they morphed before his eyes into the disaster reports following Tarsus. He’d collapsed on his bed at that point, listening to the Enterprise and her engines until his head stopped spinning. Jim imagined he could hear Spock in the room next door, gently plucking Vulcan classics on his ka’athyra. As weird as the mental image seemed, the Vulcan lyre seemed to fit Spock.

Jim’s stomach growled in the relative darkness. He checked the chronometer on his bedside table. 1730. Spock was probably already in the gyms by now and wouldn’t have any objection to starting early. He rolled out of bed and made his way through the Enterprise, nodding as he passed crew members. A science lieutenant made an awkward salute as he passed, a stack of PADDs balancing haphazardly in her arms. Jim groaned internally; the stack on his desk was still much larger.

Laughter spilled from the mess hall as he strode by, then stopped. Seated at the centermost table was the Karidian Troupe, Karidian himself at the head of the table, Lenore on his right. She was still in her Ophelia costume, laughing at a joke from a science ensign. Jim glanced at the chronometer; he had time, and keeping an eye on Kodos was part of the captain’s job. _Not that anything’s been proven,_ Jim thought to himself. His gut refused to believe him.

Karidian looked up from his plate at Jim’s arrival. Lenore flashed a too-brilliant smile at him, patting the open seat beside her. The science ensign glared at the interruption, then blanched as she recognized her captain.

“Won’t you join us, Captain Kirk? Even starship captains need to eat,” Lenore teased. Jim took the offered seat, but declined a yeoman’s offer to grab him something from the replicator.

“Thank you, Ms. Karidian, but I’m only stopping in. Spock and I have plans,” Jim explained.

Lenore took a sip of some replicated green wine. “Mm. I doubt Commander Spock has ever tempted you with dinner and company like this.” She gestured to the table around her, some of the actors doing impressions of twenty-first century Earth comedians. Jim nodded and gave her a tight smile.

“Most of our time is spent on reports or chess,” Jim confessed. “Starfleet keeps us busy.”

Lenore pursed her lips. “Perhaps I could show you what a real dinner’s like. The Enterprise has plenty of food, and plenty of fine company.” She leaned closer. “Have you ever been hungry, Captain Kirk?”

Jim leaned away, glancing at Karidian. He hadn’t moved since Jim arrived, listening intently to one of the actresses explain her idea for a re-staging of the Tempest, but now he looked over at Jim and Lenore.  

“Once,” he said, letting the words fall. “Or twice. A long way from home.”

He got up from the table, stomach rumblings suddenly deafening to his ears. He nodded tersely to Lenore, then swiftly exited the mess hall, resisting the urge to check Karidian’s reaction. It was nearly 1800, after all, and Spock wouldn’t appreciate him being late.

Jim didn’t think he could stomach the thought of food.

Spock was already in the gyms when he arrived, slowly moving through the forms of Suus Mahna, an ancient Vulcan martial art. He moved at a glacial pace, yet there was a grace to it, as Spock shifted balance from one foot to another, almost like tai chi, from Earth. His eyes were shut as he picked up the pace, sweeping across the mats almost soundlessly.  Jim hung back, watching him complete the sequence before clearing his throat.

Spock straightened, eyebrows partially raised. “You’re on time, Captain.”

“It’s Jim, Spock,” Jim said. “We’re off duty.” _It’s illogical_ , he quipped to himself. Though he suspected his use of logic was much more selfish than Spock’s.

“If you have no objections, perhaps I shall teach you some Suus Mahna,” Spock said, hands folded behind his back. “It is commonly paired with Vulcan meditation techniques, which would be beneficial to your exuberant nature.” He stepped back to give Jim room on the mats.

A smirk tugged at Jim’s lips. “Exuberant nature, Mr. Spock? I hadn’t noticed.” Spock fixed him with a stare as close to an eye-roll as Vulcans got.

Suus Mahna began from a simple standing position, feet exactly shoulder width apart, arms loose by one’s side. Jim mirrored Spock and they stood, breathing deeply, for as long as Spock sensed Jim could handle it. The gym echoed with groups on other mats, the smacking thuds as security officers ran judo drills, and the faint sound of a rapier slapping protective gear. Jim nearly smiled; Sulu had promised to teach Chekov the basics of fencing and it sounded to be off to a very painful start.

“Breathe,” Spock murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “Empty your mind.”

He imagined his mind as a blank space, floating alongside the Enterprise, completely barren, like a cornfield left fallow. His mental landscape melted into Iowa – _empty your mind_ – then became another barren field of upturned dirt stinking with blood. Jim pressed his lips together, willing the blank space back, squeezing his eyes tighter. His stomach clenched as Kodos’ face drifted past. Jim stiffened; someone was crying because their stomach hurt, a weak, plaintive cry. The wind brushed the trees, shushing his footsteps, and the mat became the forest floor under his feet, rough with needles, then scuffed like the cobblestones in the city square. Hunger pinched at his stomach, a constant burn he’d learned to live with, hardly noticing how the bones stuck out from his skin until he had seen everyone else become the living dead. Walking skeletons flashed before Jim’s mind, limping through the forest and breathing, simply breathing through the hunger pains as if they could live off of air, except there wasn’t any. There wasn’t any air.

_There wasn’t any air._

Two hands grasped his shoulders and Jim’s eyes snapped open. Warm brown eyes posed fathomless questions, but Spock said nothing, thumbs lightly stroking Jim’s shoulders.

“Jim—”

“I’m okay, Spock, really.” Jim tamped down a wave of nausea, willing his stomach to keep it together until he could find a way to politely bow out. No doubt Spock would see it as a human thing, a Jim thing, his mind as restless as his body. He looked away, unable to stand the heat in Spock’s gaze. Spock quirked an eyebrow.

“I was merely going to suggest that perhaps we switch to something more physical, such as judo.” Spock released him, then, as if surprised he was still holding on. The sounds of the gym gradually filtered back in. Jim shook his head.

“Thanks, Spock, but I think I’ll turn in for the night. The reports on my desk aren’t going to sign themselves,” he said, forcing a laugh. Spock’s face shuttered, his neutral Vulcan mask snapping into place. Jim tried to suppress the stab of guilt as he left the gym, cold despite the lingering warmth from Spock’s hands.

***

It was nearing midnight when Jim allowed himself to think about the gym and mess hall. The mountain of PADDs sat in a different stack, waiting for a yeoman to take them to be filed once Alpha shift began. The computer terminal lit his quarters, bathing the room in a blue glow. Spock had long since returned to his room, taking possession of their bathroom briefly before retiring for meditation, if Jim had to guess. They hadn’t spoken to each other, though Jim heard Spock pause after brushing his teeth, as if listening as intently as he had been. The door to Spock’s quarters had shut not long after. Jim slumped back in his desk chair, exhaling loudly. On the one hand, he was grateful it had been Spock who’d seen him freeze in the gym, letting it pass without comment. On the other, Spock would definitely have noticed he was “emotionally compromised.” Jim groaned into his hands, swallowing a yawn. It would only be a matter of time before Spock connected the dots between him and Karidian. The way Lenore had questioned him had been pointed, too on the nose to be coincidence, especially given the way Karidian had paused.

Jim frowned, fingers flying over the keyboard. There were hardly any records for the Karidian Troupe, aside from advertisements announcing their current tour around the galaxy. Jim narrowed the search field to Karidian himself and waited for the computer to catch up. The computer chimed.

_No results._

Jim sucked in a breath, sure the floor had dropped out beneath him. There were no birth records, no resume, no theater license. Not even a holo from the theatre’s performances; even in the news articles, Karidian had managed to avoid the camera. His hands shook as he typed in Lenore’s name, though he already knew the answer. _No results. Would you like to refine your query?_

Jim’s stomach. It didn’t prove anything, yet how many nights had he spent wondering what had really happened to Kodos? The governor was too devious to die on the planet. _No_ , Jim thought bitterly. _He’d set himself up to live comfortably for a decade at the expense of four thousand people._ And his body wasn’t one of the three hundred recovered in varying states of decay. He swallowed bile as he remembered the stench and the sickeningly white gleam of bones picked clean by scavengers—animals or otherwise. Jim tried to recall the breathing techniques Spock had taught him earlier that evening but his lungs didn’t want to take in all the air he needed. He considered interrupting whatever Spock was doing and heading back to the gym to burn off energy but dismissed it; Spock was either asleep or in deep meditation, and a testy first officer was the last thing he wanted to face on Alpha in the morning.

The communicator on his desk chirped and he lunged for it.

“McCoy to Kirk. I know you’re awake.”

Jim sighed. “What is it, Bones?”

“It’s Ensign O’Neill, Jim. His stress levels kept rising and—” Bones’ voice broke. “He’s dead, Jim. And I have no idea what killed him.”

_Shit._

“Thanks, Bones. You should get some sleep,” he said.

“You don’t sound like you’re in the best of shape either, Jim. I gave you sleeping pills for a reason,” Bones grumbled. “McCoy out.”

Jim stared at his communicator for a second before pitching it in the direction of his bed. It had to be Kodos, he reasoned. There wasn’t anything else deadly on the ship, and Tom…Tom had died the night before that, one of the few Tarsus survivors left.

On a hunch, Jim pulled up a holo on his computer terminal, one nobody aside from the nine people in it had seen. His own scruffy face stared back at him, the specter of Tarsus hanging off him like a wet coat. The others looked much the same, as if one strong breeze would snap them like a twig underfoot, as if they weighed no more than a leaf. Jim ran a finger over their faces, blotting out Tom’s. The eldest, Maria, had been fifteen; the youngest, Kevin, had been five. He hadn’t seen many of them since, scattered in foster homes across different planets. His own mom had taken him back to their farmhouse in Iowa, and for seven months, they’d reached something approaching happiness. Jim froze, peering closer at Kevin. If he added a few years, filled out his face…

Jim pulled up the ship’s personnel files. Lieutenant Kevin Riley’s face stared back at him, slim but no longer gaunt. Someone else had seen Kodos, on this ship. Someone else old enough to remember Tarsus. Determined, Jim searched for the other survivors; perhaps Maria had seen the Karidian Troupe in a performance and thought the same as Tom. He vaguely remembered her babbling about theatre as they rode out a virus in the safety of a cave, fevers high enough that thirteen-year-old Jim had thought they could boil water.

Each search result pulled up the same thing first, spanning the past three years.

Death certificates.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning following their gym session was no less awkward on Spock’s end than on Jim’s. The entire bridge appeared to pick up on their tension, which only abated when the Captain called Lieutenant Kevin Riley to his Ready Room to “see how he’s adjusting to the Enterprise.” The captain’s unsettling mental state had dominated most of Spock’s meditation that night. He could not forget the terror rolling off of Jim in waves, a silent scream on a wavelength only he knew. Something had unsettled the captain; prior to their stop at Alpha Carinae V, he had been his usual mix of overconfident intelligence tempered with humor and respect. Spock frowned minutely. Though he himself did not partake in bridge luncheons, eating sparingly between duties on the bridge and in the science labs, he had not seen the captain at any meal since their departure from Alpha Carinae V, either. Though there was a slight chance he had opted to utilize the replicator in his quarters, Spock didn’t consider it likely; the captain often enjoyed eating with the crew and catching up on scuttlebutt or needling Dr. McCoy in the moments he could drag the doctor from Sickbay. Though Spock preferred to eat in his quarters, he had occasionally joined the bridge crew for dinner, at the captain’s frequent invitation.

“Incoming orders from Starfleet, sir,” Uhura said from her console. “Red-flagged.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Send them to my PADD. I will inform the Captain presently,” Spock said, rising from his station. The Ready Room doors opened and shut behind him with a hiss. Spock waited in the short corridor that led into the Ready Room. It was near impossible not to hear Jim and Lieutenant Riley’s conversation, though it appeared to have concluded.

“I’ll expect you to report to Engineering tomorrow, Lieutenant,” Jim said. “Dismissed.” Riley nodded respectfully as he passed Spock in the doorway, though he didn’t imagine the scowl scrawled on the lieutenant’s face.

“Commander Spock,” Jim said, looking up from the rather larger than necessary table that housed meetings with superior officers during briefings. His hair was more of a mess than usual, strands hanging limp in his face. Purple crescents bordering on black hung beneath his eyes, weariness settling in the set of his mouth and slump of his shoulders, as if someone had tied concrete blocks to every necessary limb. Only Jim’s uniform made an attempt at captaincy, the gold shirt barely wrinkled. Spock suppressed the concern on the fringes of his mind; there was ship’s business to conduct, and personal queries could wait, for the moment.

“Captain, we’ve received orders from Starfleet regarding our next mission,” Spock began, taking a seat at the table and shifting the PADD so both of them could review the dossier from Starfleet’s data compilers. “We are to proceed to Koch III in order to mediate a dispute between the local peoples, the Mantii and the Anthophila, respectively, and forge a treaty with the Federation in order to mine dilithium and other precious metals. The locals, in return, will receive Federation protection.”

Jim h’mmed and nodded as Spock elaborated on the status of the planet’s inhabitants, two insect-like species much like the honey bee and praying mantis. Spock stopped himself when he saw Jim’s eyes glaze over, the captain nodding off without realizing before snapping to attention every eight seconds.

“Captain,” Spock said, putting the PADD down. “Jim. If you cannot conduct ship’s business, I advise you to see Dr. McCoy—”

Jim met Spock’s eyes, suddenly aware and all too close for Spock’s comfort. He leaned away, donning what Spock realized to be his captain’s persona, when he was trying his best to hold onto the image of being a captain. His shoulders dragged themselves into a position attempting confidence, his spine straightening so quickly Spock was almost alarmed that he hadn’t heard the vertebrae pop.

“Spock, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Jim said, attempting a wry smile, not entirely successful.

Spock frowned sharply. “’Fine’ has variable definitions. Furthermore, Starfleet regulation states that any officer under duress or exhibiting extreme—”

“I said, I’m fine, Spock,” Jim said harshly, running his hands roughly through his hair, leaving it in more of a mess than before. He stood, putting more distance between them. “You don’t need to cite regulation at me, like I’m fresh out of the Academy. I’m handling it.”

“What is “it,” Jim, that you cannot see fit to tell me, if not as your friend but even as your first officer?” Spock pressed, frustration mounting. They were eye to eye now, Jim’s expression blown with emotion Spock could not decipher in the present moment, absorbed in his own. A stricken look crossed Jim’s face, chased by guilt and swiftly hidden as Jim’s expression closed like a vise. Spock forced his mouth to relax, subduing the urge to grit his teeth, instead keeping his fists clenched as tightly as he dared behind his back. They stared each other down, words hanging between them, each one a knife in its own right. Jim hardly moved a muscle. They challenged each other to be the first one to look away, to concede defeat, with as much honor as one of their chess matches would yield. There was no shame in conceding to a skilled checkmate, Spock thought, though he had never known Jim to do so, not when an alternative could be found or forged from his iron will. Spock let his gaze travel from Jim’s thoroughly disheveled hair to the tension running through his shoulders to the blue eyes silently begging for Spock to be the one to blink first. He could taste Jim’s fear as easily as plomeek soup: bitter and unforgiving. It seemed he had not maneuvered the captain as gracefully into a checkmate as he had hoped.

“Very well, Captain,” Spock acquiesced stiffly. “I will return to my station. I find myself with a headache, and shall proceed to Sickbay afterwards.” He levelled a pointed look at Jim, but it didn’t appear to register. Jim barely tipped his chin to him, signaling dismissal, before Spock turned soundlessly on his heel. He did not hear the captain slump back into his abandoned chair with a barely muffled “shit.”

At the conclusion of Alpha shift, Spock made his way to Sickbay. He had not lied when he admitted to a headache, but of an entirely different sort than he had led the captain to believe. Lies of omission are still lies, he reminded himself sternly.

“Everything functioning optimally, Commander?” M’Benga called from his office.

“I am quite well, Dr. M’Benga, but your concern is noted,” Spock replied. Though I am not convinced of the Captain’s wellbeing at this juncture. He brushed past Nurse Chapel with a nod but took a moment outside McCoy’s door to steel himself. The doctor would not appreciate interruptions, but some things could be sacrificed when it came to the captain’s wellbeing.

“Come in, Spock, I know you’re standing out there,” Bones grumbled, shoving a PADD to the side after gracing it with his trademark scrawl. “I can hear a Vulcan with an emotional problem from a mile away.”

Spock was unsure which illogical part of McCoy’s statement to attack first, yet was acutely aware that his silence, in itself, was telling. “If indeed, Doctor, you have developed the necessary telepathic capacity to—”

“Sit down and shut up,” McCoy said, not unkindly. “It’s about Jim, isn’t it?”

Once again, Spock’s silence admitted more than he wished to. With barely a breath of trepidation, he related to McCoy the captain’s unusual behavior the night before in the gyms, as well as his apparent lack of sustaining himself. Spock suspected, privately, that should he abandon meditation and stay awake the entire night, he would find Jim had not slept as well. It was more than a little troubling.

McCoy sat back in his chair, a frown chiseled into his face. “Dammit, Jim,” he said. “I knew he wasn’t sleeping, but not eating could be a relapse…” he trailed off, brow furrowed. Spock leashed his irritation.

“Relapse into what, Doctor?”

McCoy squinted at him, then hummed to himself in disapproval. “So he hasn’t told you.”

“No,” Spock replied flatly. “The Captain is currently reticent to tell me anything, as of late.” His glower deepened. Were this reticence to continue, Spock would be forced to admit its compromise of Jim’s ability to function as captain, which would in turn force him to have McCoy declare him “emotionally compromised.” McCoy’s expression turned grave, equal parts pity for Spock and a look that suggested he would be having words with Jim sometime in the near future. He rubbed his temples, then checked that his office door was closed.

“Now before you cite regulation, this is for Jim’s health. And if he hasn’t told you by now, he’s damn well not going to until it’s approaching fatal,” McCoy said, scowling as he fished around in his desk drawer. He withdrew a blue data chip and carefully placed it on the desk. It wasn’t even labelled. Spock raised an eyebrow, but McCoy held up a hand, silencing him.

“Everything on this chip is strictly confidential. Jim’d have an aneurysm if he knew I’m giving this to you, but there’s no other option, short of taking the chair from him,” he continued. “Just…don’t judge him too harshly once you read it. And don’t talk to me about it after, either.” At that, McCoy sat back down behind his desk, pulling out a PADD from the middle of a stack on the floor. He grimaced as he handed it to Spock.

“That’s the autopsy report for Ensign O’Neill. There’s something fishy about his death but I can’t put my finger on it. Figured your Vulcan mind could take a crack at it.” Spock nodded and accepted the PADD, carefully stowing the data chip in his uniform pocket. He quelled his trepidation; something about the doctor’s grave expression mandated he read whatever was on the data chip in private, with no chance of being disturbed.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said, heading for the door.

McCoy’s face dropped. “Don’t thank me. Not for this.”

***

Spock remained uncomfortably aware of the data chip for the rest of the day; it burned a hole in his pocket with every passing hour in the science labs, until even Spock realized it was time to turn in and face the beast McCoy had passed to him. But first, the autopsy report. It was only logical to get ship’s business out of the way before personal.  
The PADD itself had nothing unusual, just readings of Ensign O’Neill’s condition prior to and after death. Spock frowned as he scrolled. It was as McCoy had said; nothing was out of the ordinary except for incredibly elevated adrenal and cortisol levels. Those, the doctor had noted, were the definite cause of death. O’Neill had fallen into a coma shortly after McCoy had arrived in Engineering, and despite attempts to rouse him, had stayed in a coma-like state until death, though he appeared to respond to unknown stimuli. It was as if he had been asleep, but it didn’t account for the unusual brain activity. Spock skimmed the transcripts, not expecting them to contain much; whatever O’Neill had been saying, its meaning was clearly solely intelligible to the ensign himself. Spock put the PADD aside, hand stilling as he reached for the data chip. He recalled McCoy’s face as he had handed it over. It did not inspire much confidence. But the dark circles under Jim’s eyes that morning and waves of fear he had radiated the night before provoked Spock to insert the chip into his computer console before he lost his nerve. The computer hummed slightly as it read the chip, as if considering Spock’s resolve and finding it worthy. Spock took a steadying breath when the chip’s document finally loaded on screen.

PROPERTY OF STARFLEET MEDICAL  
\--CONFIDENTIAL—  
FOR MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY, EXCEPT IN EXTREME NECESSITY

James Tiberius Kirk, complete and unabridged medical history, 2233.04 to present.

Spock’s hand hovered over the control pad. Should the captain find out he had read his medical file, despite McCoy’s justification, it would have catastrophic ramifications. For the doctor to have even given it to him in the first place was a serious breach of regulation. Nausea made its presence known and he shut his eyes, breathing deeply. Stasis, control. He was in control of his emotions, and fear would not prevent him from doing his duty, no matter what form it took. But to invade Jim’s privacy this way was tantamount to if Spock had sprung a meld on him without warning, a base betrayal of his own morals. He listened for any sign of activity in Jim’s quarters, for the barest snore or restless pacing. But all was still.

Fortifying his resolve, Spock scrolled past childhood injuries, ranging from a broken arm from falling out of a tree to minor scratches from a car wreck. Spock raised an eyebrow but continued on.

His breath hitched when he saw Tarsus IV.

Everyone who had attended Starfleet Academy knew what happened on Tarsus IV, from the famine to the massacre of four thousand innocent colonists by the governor, Kodos. Spock knew the story from his professors at the Academy, but had never seen it presented like this, devoid of emotion yet just as emotional as the class period dedicated to it. He had studied pictures of the prologue and the aftermath, seen a few holodocumentaries dedicated to the event, yet none of it seemed as real as the story of Tarsus IV told through the body of a thirteen-year-old. The file was clinical, yet graphic.

Spock read every word. He mentally mapped the deep lacerations and pitted scars from running in the ruins of the Tarsus colony, memorized the angle of Jim’s bones poking through his skin, burned the new definition of malnutrition in his mind. Told through statistics and doctor’s comments, thirteen-year-old Jim revealed himself. Spock braced himself as he opened the folder marked “holos.” Even the Enterprise’s engines fell quiet then.

He stood under a light at a doctor’s office, barely taller than the examining table. He stared right into the holo; Jim’s eyes were little more than bruises sunken into his face. His bones stuck out of tissue-paper thin skin, the light above his head nearly shining through. Spock swallowed, swiping through the photos. Each was a different angle of a too-thin body. The wind could have blown him away.

And then the scars. Spock had only seen them in brief glimpses at the gym, trying more often than not to avoid looking at the long silver scars and half-constellations dotting Jim’s skin. But here they were, angry red ropes around his neck, across his shoulders, pseudo-freckles on his forearms, like chains from a prison planet nobody had thought to remove. Spock had once noticed the silver dots on Jim’s arms and inquired as to their original. Jim had flashed a sheepish smile, hand creeping to the back of his neck as he admitted he’d been sick a lot as a child, and that the hypos must’ve left scars. Partial truth, Spock realized now, but not the entire story. He continued reading, stomach lurching.

After thirty-two days confined to a hospital bed, fed intravenously until he could handle liquids and some solids, Jim had been released to the care of his mother, Winona Kirk. Seven hundred sixty-eight hours, motionless. Spock stopped himself from calculating the minutes as Jim must have done. Stillness was never a desirable state for the Captain, who was always moving, even on the bridge, tapping the arms of his chair or walking around the stations, carefully watching over his crew. Spock closed the medical file, slightly queasy. Dr. McCoy had given him the file as a clue to Jim’s distracted nature. It would not be impossible for Jim to have seen Kodos, heard him speak, perhaps even have conversed with him while on Tarsus IV. Yet only the arrival of the Karidian Players’ Troupe aboard the Enterprise had happened at the same time as the shift in the Captain’s demeanor, shortly after Dr. Leighton’s death. Dr. Leighton, Spock had noticed, was also on the list of survivors enclosed in the medical file. And there are no coincidences.

“Computer,” he instructed. “Search all databases for term ‘Anton Karidian.’’

A few files popped up, articles from news sites announcing the Karidian Players’ Troupe galaxy tour alongside promotional video excerpts. Karidian never spoke, his daughter Lenore addressing all questions from reporters with grace.

“Search all databases for term ‘Governor Kodos’, format holo or audio,” Spock instructed. Two results pinged on his viewscreen: one, a recorded holovid sent shortly before departure to the colony on Tarsus IV, the other a newscast declaring him dead. That would be sufficient. It would be simple to acquire a recording of Karidian; the Players planned to debut their next play that evening on the Enterprise, barring any Starfleet emergencies. Perhaps then the Captain would be able to return to his usual self. There were 2.5 hours left until Beta shift’s conclusion, Spock thought. Enough time left to check on Mr. Scott and address the small matter of the transporter.

He left Ensign O’Neill’s autopsy report on his desk, slipping the blue data chip back into his pocket.

***

The after party was in full swing when Jim arrived, dress uniform pinching his neck uncomfortably. He had never gotten used to the stiff shoulders and scratchy braids, though Spock and Bones frequently pulled it off without looking like a stuffed crab by the end of an evening. The crew seemed to be happy, at least, loosening up from the tension of their previous missions. Uhura sang in the far corner of the room, surrounded by a captive audience. Communications officers mingled with engineers as the science teams broke off into their separate herds, chattering about recent technology breakthroughs from the Vulcan Science Academy. Jim had no doubt Spock had already read the latest papers and dissected them thoroughly. Nurse Chapel lingered by the drinks table, watching Chekov and Sulu like a hawk; medical attention during or after parties was common, and Jim chuckled to himself as he noticed the pre-loaded hypo in her hand, an impressive pink cosmo in the other. Actors still in costume drifted by, some nodding respectfully as he passed. Jim resisted the urge to fidget; he’d never gotten used to the nods or the occasional bow from a diplomat, as if being captain meant he was somehow better than any of the bridge crew or on par with an ambassador.

The troupe had done an excellent rendition of Hamlet. It appeared Lenore’s method acting as Ophelia had paid off, though in truth, Jim had been paying more attention to Spock’s reactions to the play than anything else, save for the moments when Karidian was on stage. Spock had frowned at the “dummy play” Hamlet had arranged to incriminate his uncle, leaning over as if to ask him for an explanation, before pulling away abruptly. Guilt seeped down Jim’s spine, hot and prickly, lodging just behind his heart. He scowled and took a large gulp of his drink, choking down the sharp burn. Jim rubbed his eyes; he hadn’t meant to explode in his Ready Room, not at Spock. But he couldn’t go back in time.

Jim leaned against the wall, acknowledging crew members as they passed. If his mood was spoiling the party, there was no sign of it. If he could go back in time…Jim frowned. Ambassador Spock would know the exact consequences of changing the past, but what if some things were meant to be changed? What if an entire world, or even just the lives of eight thousand people, would be better off if someone could change an instant? He drained the rest of his glass. He didn’t have enough alcohol in him to try and find the secrets of the universe just yet. Chapel waved the detox hypo at him, glare flinty. He pulled on a smile and waved her off. It wouldn’t do for a captain to get black-out drunk at a party. Not with these guests on board. Chapel smiled at someone over his shoulder and Jim knew who it was even before he turned.

Impeccable in his dress uniform, Spock appeared almost nervous, hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Captain,” he said, voice neutral, or trying to be. Jim caught the waver in it, addressing the awkwardness between them leftover from that morning. Guilt washed over him.

“Evening, Spock,” Jim said, attempting neutral and failing. His heart started a sprint, Spock’s presence the starting gun. Spock shifted nearer to him, opening his mouth to say something then shutting it. Jim frowned; something had rattled his unshakeable control, and though he selfishly wondered if it was him, odds were it was something else.

Spock glanced around. “If you are unoccupied, Jim, there is something I must speak to you about.”

Jim took Spock’s arm and led him to a conference room branching off from the main gathering room. It was nearly an exact replica of the Ready Room, minus the impressive desk, with the addition of a circular table and perpetually too few chairs.

“Should I sit down for this?” Jim asked, just shy of sounding like he meant the joke. Spock looked at him without comment, more somber than Jim had ever seen him. He almost looked sad. Spock took a breath, then began to pace. Jim’s stomach flipped over. Whatever it was, this wasn’t going to be good, and would probably be quite painful for both of them. He slowly intercepted Spock’s pacing, grabbing his upper arms and taking in his face. Spock radiated nervous energy, spine ramrod straight and practically vibrating from the strain.

“Captain—Jim, I—” He took a breath again, Vulcan control flickering back into place for a moment and dissipating. Jim tightened his grip.

“Whatever it is, just tell me. It can’t possibly be worse than anything we’ve encountered before,” Jim said. It can’t possibly be worse than this morning, he added privately. They were so close he could feel the heat pouring off of Spock, the faint hints of Vulcan incense stinging his nose. Their gazes never wavered from each other, locked in gentle stalemate. Spock opened his mouth to elaborate when a crash came from the party room. Jim released him and ran back to the party, Spock close on his heels.

A tray of drinks shattered as Jim pushed past a yeoman to the young man writhing on the floor. Uhura was already comming Sickbay, Chapel keeping the man steady so he wouldn’t choke on his own spit. It was Kevin Riley. Other partygoers crowded around, though they kept a wide berth to give him space. The Karidian Players had grouped together, with the exception of Lenore, who was kneeling beside Chapel at Riley’s side. He gasped for air, face burning red.

“Get him to Sickbay, I’ll be right down,” Jim told Chapel. She and Uhura lifted Riley, rushing out of the room. “What happened?”

Lenore looked up at him, tears leaving inky tracks on her cheeks. “We were listening to Lieutenant Uhura’s singing and I handed Kevin a drink. He collapsed after that.”

Spock stepped forward. “May I see the glass?” Lenore pointed to a shattered mess on the floor, the stench of synthehol and vanilla apparent. Spock knelt beside the puddle, carefully taking samples. Jim moved away from Lenore as Karidian bustled over, concern splattered on his face. He lifted her to her feet, gently securing her in his arms. How he could treat someone with such gentleness was beyond him, Jim thought.

“It would appear this is quite the dangerous ship, Captain,” Karidian said as he passed, stern. Lenore’s weeping devolved into wet hiccups. Jim repressed a shiver, focusing intently on the samples Spock had collected.

“If you’re good, here, Spock, I’m going to Sickbay,” he said, stomach tying itself in knots. Spock scrutinized him, satisfied for the moment, then turned back to his samples, though Jim wasn’t sure he imagined the apprehension still lingering around his first officer. One more thing to talk to Bones about, it seemed.

The antiseptic smell of Sickbay turned Jim’s stomach even more as he rushed to the farthest biobed. Sweat dripped from Kevin’s face, hair damp and matted, though the signals over his bed pronounced him stable for the moment. Jim’s heart thundered in his chest and for an instant he could smell the thick, choking stench of mold on cave walls and a fire on the brink of death, saturated with stale sweat and vomit. He crushed a surge of anger. Tom had told him his suspicions and here he was, waffling back and forth while people got hurt. And he’d failed Kevin; Jim scowled, breathing harshly. Engineering, for all its accidents, was the safest place on the ship. He had to get his shit together, he thought. Other captains don’t just stand by when there’s a threat on board. Jim snorted to himself. He wasn’t exactly the picture of a Starfleet captain; other captains didn’t yell at their XO when they tried to figure out what was wrong. Hell, they wouldn’t have let their past compromise them in the first place. He smoothed Kevin’s hair back, sinking into a nearby chair. Bones bustled out of his office, PADD in one hand and hypo in the other. Jim flinched when Bones brushed past him, administering a hypo to Kevin.

“That’ll help him sleep it off,” Bones said, handing the PADD off to a junior nurse.

“What happened to him, Bones?”

“You’re not going to like this, Jim,” he replied, pulling up his own chair across from Jim. “Now I don’t know how it got onto the Enterprise, but Lieutenant Kevin Riley was definitely poisoned.” He waved away Jim’s response.

“He’ll be fine; I got to him in time. But that’s not the worst of it, so be quiet and let me finish.” Bones pulled up a substance analysis on a spare PADD and handed to Jim. A molecular diagram flashed on screen.

“Baker’s Revenge,” Bones said gruffly. “Smells like vanilla, tastes like vanilla, but kills almost instantly. A baker on Gamma Ceti III invited his top competitors to a tasting party and they were all dead before their ice cream had a chance to melt. The investigators almost died before they figured out how he’d done it. Some of the deadliest stuff in the galaxy, at least to carbon-based lifeforms.”  
Jim swallowed thickly, glancing at Riley, who was out cold, monitor gently announcing his heartbeat. Bones took the PADD from him.

“You still haven’t told him, have you?” Bones asked, looking meaningfully at him. “He’s going to figure it out eventually, Jim. And when he does—”

“I haven’t had the time, Bones!” Jim snapped, rubbing his temples. “Between the Karidians, some weird transporter malfunction Scotty’s been muttering about, and insomnia, I haven’t exactly had time to sit down and spill the beans to Spock.” Bones gave him a look laced with equal parts pity and concern. His next words were almost definitely about sleeping pills, but Jim’s communicator chirped just in time.

“Spock to Captain Kirk.”

“Kirk here,” he said, willing away the tremor in his voice.

“Captain, I believe I’ve had a breakthrough concerning Lieutenant Riley. I will meet you in Sickbay presently. Spock out.”

Bones just clapped a hand on Jim’s shoulder, standing in silence for a moment before retreating to his office, message clear: Jim would have to tell Spock the whole story sooner or later, and deal with the fall out if he chose later.

Spock stopped in the doorway, silent. Jim slumped in his chair, a PADD dangling from his fingertips. He stood at Spock’s appearance, then hesitantly sat down again, motioning for Spock to join him. Jim’s stomach turned as he opened his mouth.

“Spock, there’s something I gotta—”

“Captain, I must address—”

They broke off, holding each other’s gaze. Jim motioned for Spock to go first. Spock inclined his head, moving his chair closer.

“Captain,” Spock started. He swallowed. “Jim. I do not believe you have been entirely truthful with me regarding your behavior as of late.” His voice was unfathomably careful, as if he were afraid one wrong word would send Jim spiraling over the edge of some unknown precipice. Spock clenched the armrest ever so slightly. “I know the events of Tarsus IV, that you were one of nine survivors, against impossible odds.” He quieted, oblivious to the severe churning of Jim’s stomach. Spock briefly closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

“Yeah,” Jim whispered, throat dry. “Yeah, it definitely wasn’t a picnic.”

Spock fixed him with a stare, eyes searching for something. “And may I assume you already suspect Karidian of being Kodos?” he asked, still impossibly gentle.

Jim focused on Kevin’s slack face, the flush in his cheeks cooling as Bones’ antidote eradicated any traces of the Baker’s Revenge. He couldn’t look at Spock in that moment; there was too much swimming in the surface of his eyes, too much he projected in miniscule posture adjustments. The sickbay antiseptic stung just the right amount, warding off any phantom scents of Tarsus, but he could feel it hanging over him, waiting for him to drop his guard for one moment and succumb.

Spock laid a hand on his forearm, a brief, warm weight. “Tusha nash-veh k’odular ,” he said.

_I grieve with thee._

Jim laid a hand on top of Spock’s. “Thanks.”

They both stood when Bones reentered the room, leaning against Kevin’s biodbed. “Now that you’ve both got that out of your systems, what’s the plan?”

“We’ve got to get a confession of some sort,” Jim said. “If Karidian somehow isn’t Kodos…” he trailed off, pressing his lips together.

Spock stepped closer, pulling two data chips out of his pocket. He handed a blue one to Bones, who tucked it into a pocket. He put the red one into Bones’ computer, typing in commands to access the Science Officer settings. “On here you will find a recording of Governor Kodos’ farewell speech prior to departure for the Tarsus colony and an audio recording of Karidian’s performance this evening. The Enterprise computers should be sufficiently advanced to analyze the voice files.” At Jim’s nod, he ran the files through the audio analyzer. The machine beeped in time with Riley’s heartbeat, red lights flickering.

“Match confirmed,” the computer said. “Anton Karidian is Governor Kodos.”

Jim’s stomach dropped out of orbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I try to update on Fridays, but next week's pretty hectic, so the update might be a little late.


	3. Chapter 3

Bones rechecked Kevin’s vitals as Spock and Jim stared at the computer.

“We need better evidence than that,” Jim said. “In case the computer’s wrong.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow. “The chance of the Enterprise computers being at fault are 0.001 percent.”

Jim shook his head. “We—I—can’t take that chance, Spock. I’ve got to be sure.” They stood in silence, brainstorming, when Jim’s comm chirped.

“Scotty to Captain Kirk.”

“Spock here,” Spock said, answering Jim’s comm as Bones pulled Jim aside, shoving a whirring tricorder in his face and planting him on a biobed.

“I should’ve known you’d be there, Commander. The matter and anti-matter reactors are completely wrecked—somebody’s gone and shoved all kinds of mess into the parts and I can’t get them out,” Scotty explained, panic lacing his words. “If the Enterprise tries to go to warp, she’ll be blown to bits.”

Jim wrestled himself out of Bones’ grip. “I’ll meet you in Engineering, Scotty,” he said.

“Oh no you won’t,” Bones replied, hypoing him viciously on the neck. “You skipped your physical last month and I’m not entirely convinced you’re as fine as you claim to be. You’ve been looking peaky lately, and I got quite the earful when you snapped at Uhura on the bridge a few hours ago.” Jim grumbled as Bones set up the biobed for physical tests and set aside a PADD for a preliminary psych evaluation.

“The Doctor is quite right, Captain. You’ve borne quite the resemblance to a sea creature of Earth.” Jim tried not to gape; he could swear Spock was teasing him.

“Oh? And what would that be, Mr. Spock?”

“An urchin, perhaps?” Bones tossed in.

Spock looked Jim in the eyes, a faint smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. “On the contrary, a rather spectacular crustacean.” He informed Scotty he’d be in Engineering in a minute, leaving Jim in Bones’ hypo-happy hands.

The corridors were devoid of life, normally bustling with crewmembers racing to battle stations or their latest project. Spock’s footsteps echoed down the hall as he made his way to Engineering. It was imperative that he make haste—the warp core was a finicky thing, prone to problems this far into space, and with all of Scotty’s modifications through the years, Spock was fairly certain the Enterprise’s warp core was in a league of her own. He turned the corner and halted. Lenore Karidian, much recovered from earlier, stood in the doorway of Lieutenant Sulu’s corridors as he chattered excitedly about old Earth weapons and their representations in theatre. She interjected when she could, though Sulu, once started on something he was passionate, could speak for hours on it, disseminating every aspect. Lenore’s face shifted as she noticed Spock, Sulu dashing back into his quarters to grab a specimen, likely an antique he’d picked up from their last shore leave on Earth.

“Mr. Spock,” Lenore called with a smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Spock raised an eyebrow but folded his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “Indeed.” She shot him a coy smile and batted her lashes at Sulu as he returned, an old-style revolver cradled in his hands. The safety was engaged, Spock noted with approval; Starfleet required weapons with propulsion elements to be kept in as safe a state as possible, to limit the risk of injury. Few doctors were experienced in non-space-travel-related injuries, and even Dr. McCoy would have his hands full sealing bullet wounds or gaping holes from a Vulcan lirpa.

“It’s not loaded,” Sulu reassured her, handing it to Lenore to examine. She hefted it experimentally.

“It’s a little heavier than expected, Lieutenant Sulu,” she observed, taking a stance and aiming down the corridor. “It seems old movie posters were right about buff, gun-toting cowboys.”

With the exception of Dr. McCoy and the Captain, Lieutenant Sulu was the most accurate shot on board. Spock nodded farewell to both of them, nearly running to Engineering.

“He’s working himself up to a good shouting match, Commander,” a passing ensign informed him. Ensign Connelly. “Be careful in there.” Spock spared her a thankful nod and followed clattering tools and shouts to the matter and anti-matter reactors. As illogical as it was, it wouldn’t have surprised Spock to find the majority of the steam coming from the reactors was instead the result of Scotty’s fury. The rest of the Engineering division busied themselves with loose panels and cleaning Jeffries tubes; Scotty was like a mother bear when it came to the warp core, and nobody was certain they could calm him enough to explain they were just going to help.

“I can’t figure it out, Commander! Nobody on board the Enterprise would dare touch her, not without my supervision,” Scotty vented, red face matching his shirt. Bits and bobs from spare parts covered the floor around him, tool boxes stacked haphazardly throughout the room. Scotty handed him a tricorder  tuned to the Enterprise’s normal operation; several objects were jammed into the reactor chambers, inhibiting warp capabilities. If someone were to so much as touch the controls or prime the inertial dampeners, they’d be at risk of exploding. Spock grabbed a pair of technician’s gloves from the overflowing spare box and pulled them on. He and Scotty removed the massive control panel guarding the reactors, gingerly leaning it against the tool box tower. Elbow deep in what Scotty called the “guts of the Enterprise,” Spock found the peculiar urge to fill the silence with something other than Scotty’s intermittent curses.

“I don’t know how we’re going to tell this to the Captain,” Scotty commented, making Spock jump, but disguised it as best he could. “He’s going to be livid, and a livid Captain means an unsettled ship. Incidents like this just don’t happen by themselves.”

“Indeed,” Spock murmured, twisting two wires delicately around each other. Faint electrical currents tickled his fingertips through the gloves. “However, there are…other matters consuming his attention at the moment.”

“Aye, he’s been distracted of late, and not in a good way,” Scotty said. Sparks arced between his palms and he snapped his fingers, leaving an effect almost like lightning in the air. Spock was about to ask for clarification regarding how distractions could be good, when the scent of honey briefly filled the room. Chills pricked Spock’s spine and he stilled, looking over at Scotty. He’d frozen too, on edge.

They extricated their hands from the Enterprise’s veins. Spock tugged off his gloves and rose, following the scent. It was dizzyingly strong, reminiscent of the single time he had consumed chocolate, with disastrous effects. His vision wavered, the toolboxes multiplying as he turned back to Scotty.

“This scent is an intoxicant, Mr. Scott. Cover your mouth and nose,” Spock instructed, pulling his uniform collar over his face. Scotty followed behind him, slightly dazed-looking. Quite the intoxicant, Spock noted silently. Scotty was starting to sway as he walked; Spock steadied him and they exited the reactor chambers. He scanned the area with his tricorder, atmosphere analysis flashing on screen and giving way to static. Scotty sagged in his arms, and Spock detected a surge in fear radiating from Scotty, just like Ensign O’Neill. He flicked open his communicator, checking his periphery for anything—a person, a haze.

“Spock to Sick Bay.”

“McCoy here. If you’ve fried your hands—”

“Prepare a biobed. Mr. Scott has been…attacked.” He snapped his communicator shut and hefted Scotty over his shoulder, sprinting to Sickbay.

***

Bones examined the monitor, Ensign O’Neill’s autopsy results in a white-knuckled grasp. Scotty’s hormone levels were rising, albeit at a much slower rate than O’Neill’s had. But it was undeniable. Spock paced around the curtained-off bed, hands locked behind his back.

“It’s like a virus, preying on the body, then the mind. First O’Neill, now Scotty. I had Chapel quarantine Engineering but knowing those hotheads, they’ll get it anyway.” Bones scowled at the charts.

“Doctor, have you considered—”

“Dammit, Spock, I’ve tried everything!” Bones growled, tossing the data PADD onto a side table. “I’ve given him every stabilizer and hormone regulator I’m legally allowed to, and some I’m not!” He sighed harshly and sank into Jim’s abandoned chair.

“Captain, tha’s nigh on madness,” Scotty mumbled. “Ejectin’ the warp core would scalp the ship.” He lapsed into Scots Gaelic, words trailing off down the path to a fever dream. He shivered on the biobed, sweat tinging the air. Spock’s face set itself in consternation. He appeared to argue with himself, then reach a resolution. Bones dragged his hands down his face and tried to breathe. Whatever it was, he doubted the hobgoblin would be able to do more than he had, at least medically.

“He is having nightmares,” Spock observed. “But does not seem to realize he is asleep.”

“Well, Spock, if you’re suggesting we go the sleeping beauty route, you’re going to have to run it by Jim,” Bones grumbled. “And I’m not kissing anybody. Not even to save the Enterprise.”

Spock raised both eyebrows, scandalized. “I am unfamiliar with your reference, nor did I make any allusion to kissing anybody, least of all Mr. Scott.” He paused to give Bones the full effect of his glare, lips disappearing in a tight line. “Rather, I was about to suggest a mindmeld to combat whatever has taken control of him.”

Bones mulled it over, glancing at Scotty. They’d exhausted the bounds of medicine, but Vulcan telepathy could be dangerous. He’d heard stories from M’Benga about Vulcan medics making critical mistakes while practicing melds, injuring the patient instantly. And as adept as Spock’s telepathy was, the human mind was quite different from the Vulcan mind. He shuddered as he tried to picture Scotty’s mental landscape, though it would probably be a fair sight better than Jim’s. But unless he discovered previously-unknown human telepathy, he’d lose a patient and the Enterprise would lose her most devoted engineer.

“I’m all ears, Spock. There’s nothing I can do,” Bones said, gesturing to Scotty. He set his gaze on the sleeping engineer, heart clenching. Ensign O’Neill had been young, new to the ship, but Scotty was the Enterprise’s true doctor, the brains of the ship. He knew every knut and bolt and sometimes slept outside the warp core chamber in between repairs. He was the heart and soul of Engineering and Bones doubted he’d be able to forgive himself if he let some mysterious affliction take Scotty because of concerns about equally as mysterious Vulcan mind-stuff. But the Vulcan had been on edge, recently; Bones pointedly avoided speculating the state of Spock’s control at the moment. _Damned Vulcans, pushing themselves too far_ , Bones lamented. _He’s as bad as Jim some days._

“I shall need time to prepare, Doctor,” Spock said.

“Don’t take too long. Scotty hasn’t got much of it left, from the looks of it.”

***

Jim waited backstage, phaser in one hand, communicator in the other. He fiddled with the switches, leaning against the backdrop as actors waited silently in the wings, some mouthing the next lines along with the actors on stage. Strains of A Midsummer Night’s Dream echoed in the room as Lenore began one of Helena’s monologues. Jim nearly laughed at the thought of Spock’s reaction to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. _Most illogical,_ he’d say. But the laugh quickly soured as Jim refocused on Karidian. He had to get this confession. Karidian stood in the wings as Oberon, plum-colored robes nearly black. He approached Jim, cocking his head at the phaser tight in Jim’s grasp.

“Extra security, Captain?” He murmured, glancing back on stage. Nobody had heard him. Jim swallowed, then holstered his phaser, hands trembling.

“Can’t be too careful,” Jim said, voice even.

_O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!_ Lenore had captured the crew, it seemed. They leaned forward in their seats; even Kodos seemed enraptured, stage lights glittering in his eyes.

“My dear Lenore,” he whispered. “Such a natural to the stage that I wondered if I’d made a mistake in not forming the troupe sooner.”

“Men make many mistakes,” Jim replied. “Some more forgivable than others.” He took Kodos’ arm, leading him to a side room outside the modified theatre room.

“Captain Kirk! If you must talk to me, surely it can wait until after the show,” Kodos whispered violently, facing him. He was slightly taller than Jim, hair graying and beard neatly brushed, an aged picture of the governor Jim remembered from that moment on Tarsus IV, shielded by a podium. The blood surged through his veins; Jim could hear his heart threatening to leave his chest.

“Listen, Governor, for a moment,” Jim commanded, hand resting on his phaser. Kodos sputtered, backing into a wall.

“Would you call the murder of four thousand people a ‘mistake’?” Jim said in a low voice, stepping closer. “Would the fungus and famine that wiped out Tarsus IV be a natural accident?” He spat the last few words. A glimmer of recognition appeared in Kodos eyes, alongside a healthy bout of fear and something Jim couldn’t bring himself to name.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Captain. If you’ll excuse me, I have a performance—” He tried to push past Jim, but he barred his way with an arm.

“If you’re an actor, then you won’t mind demonstrating a little speech for me,” Jim said. Fury sung in his blood but he tamped it down, reaching for his best impression of Spock’s unflappable logic. Emotional compromise had to be the last thing on his mind. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, but rage still hummed in his veins.

“Very well, Captain. If you so insist.” Kodos looked him in the eyes, a challenge evident. His voice was soft with his next words, a carefully cushioned warning. “Do not to take too long. Time is the one thing we humans have in finite supply.”

Jim retrieved a PADD from the room, bringing up a document he could’ve recited from memory; it was emblazoned in his mind, and writing it down had taken hours of stopping and starting, forcing himself to face the blank page. The words were vile in his mind, the taste of dirt turned to dust and the bitter, dead herbs scavenged in the hopes of having fiber coating his tongue the entire time, like milk left to spoil in the sun. He activated the recording function on the PADD, stomach churning. Kodos gingerly took it from him, glancing over it and warming up his throat.

A spark of something was there. Recognition. Jim was sure of it. But Starfleet wouldn’t accept anything less than a confession from someone who was supposedly dead. And killing Kodos…one phaser blast. Here, on silent. Captains wouldn’t murder passengers. Captains didn’t usually have to face the mass murderer that featured in nearly all of their nightmares.

_But you’ve never been anything less than unusual, haven’t you?_

Jim forced his hand off his phaser and nodded to Kodos.

“Any time you’re ready.”

Kodos looked up from the PADD briefly and settled into a stance that sent shivers down Jim’s spine. The slope of the shoulders, the set of the mouth. He’d seen it all before. He breathed shallowly through his nose, in and out.

And Kodos began.

“The revolution is successful. But survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony.” Kodos broke off. “Captain, is this entirely necessary?”

Jim stepped closer again, nearer to Kodos than he ever thought he’d be. His hand returned to his phaser and he let it rest there. “Keep reading,” he whispered, ignoring buzzing dizziness. He’d gotten the confession, done his duty to justice for Starfleet. But justice for the four thousand, for Tom, and the others…Jim wasn’t sure if he could trust that duty to his own hands.

“Therefore,” Kodos broke off, then resumed. “Therefore, I have no alternative to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered, signed Kodos, Governor of Tarsus IV.” His voice was hardly louder than a whisper at the end. Shivers wracked Jim’s body; the cadence was exact, the inflection flawless.

“What was the purpose of this?” Kodos asked, still whispering. He stared down at the PADD, as if its light would be less glaring than the expression on Jim’s face. “Torturing a man with fifteen years of guilt, as if I haven’t thought of it every day, of waking to my daughter’s nightmares and watching her starve herself, then gorge, in equal measure, because of what I’d inflicted on her. I know who you are, James Kirk,” he spat. “Not by your face, not by your name, but from fifteen years of imagining the faces of the four thousand I murdered, and the guilt that swallowed them all.”

Jim choked, gasping for air. Panic rose in his chest and he reached for the wall. He must remain in control of his emotions. Kodos shoved the PADD back into Jim’s hands, then exited the room swiftly, composing himself under the mantle of Karidian as Oberon, nothing more than a fairy king from a long-dead story.

***

Jim stumbled into his desk chair, missed, and hit the floor, gasping for breath. He’d held it in the entire way to his quarters but now, anger and shame overwhelmed him. Searing guilt trickled down his spine. He’d had Kodos right there, had a confession, but had frozen. Couldn’t lay a finger on him, couldn’t even speak. His lungs threatened to burst, strangle him right there like Spock had once attempted on the bridge. Jim tried to hold in his sobs—if Spock was in his quarters and came to check on him, it would be unbearable. _A Captain remains in control of his emotions,_ Jim reminded himself. Tears leaked out, scalding his cheeks. _I can’t break right now. Not while Kodos is on board._ He leaned against the foot of his bed, his quarters swimming before his eyes, panic tight in his chest. A tear dripped in his lap, followed by another, like someone had opened a floodgate kept sealed tightly for years. His legs collapsed beneath him and he slumped against the foot of the bed.

_Get a grip,_ he berated himself. _You’re the fucking captain of the Enterprise._

Jim sat there for what felt like an eternity, not even the hum of the warp engines to steady him. Nausea rolled over him in waves, the hand around his lungs growing tighter and tighter as his heart pounded. He just had to hold on. _It’ll pass_ , he told himself, though the moment stretched ever longer. He squeezed his eyes shut at the pneumatic hiss of the bathroom door.

“Captain?” he heard Spock call, then, more concerned, “Jim?”

He could picture the slant of Spock’s eyebrows, the characteristic “illogical human” look he would give him whenever Jim got too emotional for his taste.

“I’m fine, Spock,” he choked out, the words scraping his throat. They sounded like little more than a cough.

Spock swiftly located Jim and knelt in front of him, emotion shining through, though Jim couldn’t put a name to it; the hands squeezed tighter around his lungs and he was gasping for breath through another round of tears.

“I’m fine. I’m in control,” Jim insisted through an unwilling sob.

Spock pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow. _Clearly, not._ Jim clenched his teeth and tried to breathe when a cool hand laid itself against his cheek, Spock’s thumb gently stroking his face once, twice, before dropping to his shoulder. The weight of Spock’s hand grounded him, reminding his lungs how breathing was supposed to work. He shuddered in a breath, shakily blowing it back out. Hints of calm suffused him, the tears drying to a trickle. Jim’s hands shook less, though the tremors were still detectable. Spock tilted Jim’s face towards him, catching Jim’s eyes, and he couldn’t look away. Phantom pain painted Spock’s face in a thin layer.

“I wish to know why you could not bring yourself to tell me,” Spock said to him, voice no louder than a murmur. He released Jim’s face but matched his gaze.

Jim flushed and traced the carpet patterns near Spock’s other hand. “I tried, Spock. But there was either a crisis, or the words got stuck in my throat and all this emotional stuff isn’t really your cup of tea anyway…” Shame bloomed in his chest, a newborn fire feeding on guilt. “It’s…illogical.”

Spock’s gaze sharpened. “What is necessary is never illogical, Jim. And it is logical for friends to trust in each other when they cannot trust in themselves.” His hand trailed down Jim’s shoulder, inching towards his elbow, down his forearm, a tentative blaze warding off the chill that had taken root in his veins. Spock’s fingers had just barely caught the edge of Jim’s sleeve when a scream cleaved the air.

Jim froze in place, then snapped to his feet, darting towards the guest corridors as crew members got out of the way; the screams continued, growing louder. He heard Spock behind him calling for Security and medical personnel to meet them in the guest corridors. Crew members and some of the Karidian Players crowded in front of a room, dressed in various states of disarray, old-fashioned hair curlers, bathrobes, and ratty slippers wearing a path in front of Lenore Karidian’s door. Horatio, from the earlier performance, cleared a path for Jim and Spock. Two long scratches marred his cheeks, dripping blood on his undershirt.

“I was helping her let down her hair after today’s performance, since we always do our pins together,” he sputtered, “and I smelled honey before she attacked me.”

Jim nodded and walked into the quarters, trusting Spock to do damage control, doors sliding shut behind him. The screams had stopped, fading to low groans. In the dim light, Jim didn’t immediately notice Lenore standing at the dressing compartment in her nightgown, blonde hair in shambles around her shoulders. Jim approached slowly, hands outstretched in a calming gesture; he ignored the way they trembled.

“Ms. Karidian,” he said as gently as he could manage. “Lenore.”

She turned, suddenly, faster than humanly possible. Her eyes were shut and she stumbled toward backwards against the closet.

“Don’t touch me,” she rasped. “Don’t touch me, I haven’t got any!”

“Any what?”

Jim stopped and frowned, reaching for his communicator only to find his belt empty. _Shit._ He must’ve left it in his room, and Spock was busy dealing with the mess outside. Lenore writhed, clawing at the air.

“Ms. Karidian, stay calm,” Jim said, trying for soothing but verging on panicked. He grabbed her wrists hands as she lunged at him, shrieking obscenities.

“Get away from me! I don’t have any food!” Lenore screamed again, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, still squeezed tightly shut. The doors hissed open and Kodos rushed in, still dressed in a plum robe, beard frazzled. He wrested Lenore out of Jim’s grasp, pinning her in his arms; her screams dissolved into whimpers.

“Captain, I demand to know what’s upset my daughter,” Kodos said. He ran his hands through Lenore’s hair in soothing motions, worry evident, but Jim couldn’t bring himself to speak. _She was having a waking nightmare about Tarsus._ Lenore wrenched herself out of Kodos’ grasp, crying harder.

“Please don’t leave me alone,” she sobbed. “They’re coming for me! They think I have food!” She darted to a drawer, pulling out a hefty silver revolver Jim recognized from Sulu’s ancient weapons collection. This time, however, the special safety Starfleet had designed was nowhere to be found. Though Sulu didn’t keep his weapons loaded, it was safe to assume the revolver wasn’t empty. The gun shook in her hands as she crouched behind the bed, fumbling to stay upright. _Please, Spock, come quickly._

“Lenore, please—”

“Ms. Karidian, you’re safe, no one’s—”

“Shut up!” She yelled, revolver clutched in both hands, barrel wavering between the two of them like a pendulum. Jim cautiously approached, stepping carefully over piles of clothes and old books.

“Please, Lenore, calm down,” Kodos whispered, frozen in place.

“ _Stay back,”_ she screamed. “Don’t make me hurt you!”

Jim stepped closer, hands out and up. “Shhh,” he soothed. “It’s okay. You’re on the Enterprise, remember?"

Lenore pressed the trigger just as the doors hissed open.

Kodos dropped like a puppet cut from its strings, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Blood blossomed around his upper chest; Jim was certain she’d hit his heart. He gasped wretchedly, coughing up bile and blood.

“Jim!” It was Spock. Lenore stumbled toward Jim, gun steady in her hands now, despite her lack of balance.

He turned to him, motioning back towards the doors. “Spock, don’t—”

The gunshot was oddly silent, the bullet passing through like a hot knife through butter. Jim gaped at Lenore as she swung towards Spock, revolver abandoned. He sucked in a scream at a burst of pain in his ribs, as if someone had jabbed a club through his chest and lit it on fire. Warm liquid poured through his fingers as he held his side, leaning against a wall for support. Why was the room spinning? There was a thud behind him, though it sounded miles away, and then Spock was there, gripping his shoulders too tightly. He wanted to tell Spock to stop pinching him so hard, but his lips were heavy as boulders. Spock sounded as if he were underwater too, his mouth moving at one-half speed. Jim squinted as Spock grew fuzzier, then blacked out in a wash of cold.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Spock refocused on the candle in front of him, one Dr. M’Benga had taken with him following the conclusion of his studies on Vulcan. It wasn’t his usual meditation candles, but then again, he did not normally make a habit of meditating in Sickbay.

Jim had gone into surgery 3.5 hours ago. Nurse Chapel and Dr. McCoy had not emerged from the operating room once, though if he strained, he could hear them.

Spock did not strain to hear what was going on.

Instead, he focused on the scent of the candle, the faint heat radiating from it. The gunshot echoed in his ears and though the blood on his hands was dry by now, he could still feel it gushing as he applied pressure to the bullet wound and ran to Sickbay with Jim. Spock frowned, then extinguished the candle, a small curl of smoke disappearing in the chill. M’Benga had left a blanket beside him, “in case of shock” and he wrapped it around himself, though a shiver wracked his frame. But the cold was preferable to the heat of Jim’s blood against his skin, crimson, like Vulcan sands at dawn. Shortly after Jim had been shot, he had nerve-pinched Lenore and instructed security officers to confine her to the brig. Kodos’ body had been stowed in a preservation chamber, though the blood was still warm under Spock’s boots. A junior nurse had brought Kodos’ death report, but Spock couldn’t bring himself to do much more than glance at the thing; it reminded him too strongly of Ensign O’Neill’s report still in his quarters, and Scotty on a biobed in the room over, muttering instructions in a panic to an engine only he could see.

Spock immediately straightened when the door opened, Bones stripping off his gloves and depositing them in the reclamator.

“He’s mostly stable now,” Bones said, waving off Spock’s inquiries. _Though that implies that at one point, he wasn’t,_ Spock noted. Bones collapsed heavily in a chair by the biobed Spock perched on.

“Dammit, Spock, where did we go wrong?” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “We should’ve locked Kodos up the minute we knew, and that damned daughter of his, too. Should’ve known something was up when O’Neill died.”  His voice cracked at the end. Spock struggled to find his voice.

“Doctor, it is statistically unlikely that any of us—”

Bones cut him off with a halfhearted wave. “Look, just go on back. I know you’re worried about Jim.  The bullet shattered some ribs, grazed his liver, and had the gall to be coated in poison, but he’ll live.”

Spock slid off the biobed, stopping in the doorway. The doctor looked weary, shoulders bowed as he kneaded his temples, eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. “Doctor McCoy,” he said softly. He had no words, none that wouldn’t tip the delicate balance in their verbal sparring.

“Just go on, Spock. Don’t worry your Vulcan head over me. I’ll be fine.”

Spock nodded, then entered the room.

Jim looked like a child in the biobed, reminiscent of the Tarsus photos in his medical file. Several tubes linked him to softly beeping machines, the monitor above his head showing normal readings for a man on the mend. Spock sat carefully on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Jim, though he doubted he would wake up from so small a thing. He was pale and drawn, lips tinged slightly blue and eyes sunken like craters. Purple anti-toxin fed intravenously into his bloodstream, combatting the Baker’s Revenge that had coated the bullet, according to the operation analysis. Jim was shirtless as well to allow the tubes better access, and the scar tissue puckered an angry red and gold around the entry site. Some dye from his shirt had bled into the cells from fibers drawn into the wound at the bullet’s entrance; it would fade, with time, but Jim would have a faintly golden mark to remind him, like the silver hypo marks that already dotted his arms. Spock ignored the illogical urge to touch it, to reaffirm that the Captain was whole and well. He shifted closer, carefully resting two fingers on Jim’s pulse. It was warm and steady, chasing away the chill that settled into his bones in the last 3.5 hours.

 _I am glad you are well._ The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but it was illogical to voice them aloud. There was little chance of Jim hearing them, given his current state, and should he wake him, there was no doubt Dr. McCoy would be less than pleased. He contented himself with the knowledge that when Jim awoke, he would be at his side. Spock placed his hand on Jim’s wrist.

Jim’s pulse jumped under his fingertips, his heartbeat spiking on the monitor. It steadily began beating faster, Jim’s adrenaline levels climbing rapidly. Dr. McCoy hustled into the room, cursing up a storm, but Spock sat, frozen. He detected the faintest tinge of honey on the air as Jim twitched, face contorting.

“Spock, if he moves anymore he’ll tear something and bleed out,” Bones said tersely, securing tubes with adhesive. “I can’t cure whatever’s going on in his mind right now but if Jim’s got what Scotty’s got, he’ll be dead in a few hours.”

“I understand, Leonard,” Spock said. His shields were in tatters; he could taste Jim’s fear, coating his tongue like thick, dark honey. Sweat beaded on Jim’s forehead and he moaned, agony deep on his face. Spock took a deep breath and faced Dr. McCoy.

“I am going to attempt to meld with Jim. No matter what either of us say, or what emergencies arise, do not let us come out of the meld until we are ready. It would be catastrophic. Should I fail, and die with the Captain, you will be the sole commanding officer aboard the Enterprise. Good luck, Doctor,” Spock instructed, perching once more on the edge of Jim’s bed. Bones nodded, sober, and engaged the privacy lock on the door after bidding Chapel to keep an eye on Scotty.

Spock took a stabilizing breath, then aligned his hand on Jim’s meld points.

_My mind to your mind._

***

_My thoughts to your thoughts._

_Spock was falling through stars, dim flashes of light compared to the luminous pit below him. Or perhaps the stars were the ones falling past him, miniscule splashes in the honey-colored pit. He followed them down, unconsciously bracing for impact as he tumbled through the net of honey—_

_And landed face first on the ground, chalky dirt filling his mouth. Broken stalks marred the field around him, the sun beating down on his neck. He swallowed to clear the dust, mouth dry as paper. Two cracked boots planted themselves in front of him, and he looked up. A man swung a fist at him, then another, landing blows on already-blooming bruises. His eyes were gaunt with hunger, his hair no more substantial than smoke. Spock staggered to his feet, highly aware of the red blood dripping down his arm._

_Jim, where are you?_

_The man shoved him into the ground once more, spitting in his face._

_“If I find you stealing again, you’ll become the food,” the man snarled, leaving him on his back in the dust._

_This, Spock realized, must be Tarsus. He followed a set of footprints into the ashes of a cornfield, razed to the ground following raids and looting in the beginnings of the famine. He tucked his nose into his shirt, careful not to breath the air too much; fungal infections were highly difficult to treat on colonial planets due to insufficient medical supplies. A shadow flickered in his periphery, but when he turned to look at it, all he saw was a blanket of fungus. He continued on, checking over his shoulder every twenty paces._

_The footprints led him to a cave. Spock paused at its mouth, irrationally certain that something had followed him. He coughed into an elbow, wincing as he tried to stifle it. His throat felt like it had been left to dry in Vulcan’s Forge. A girl stared up at him in the relative darkness of the cave, the same sunken eyes and protruding bones as the rest of the group._

_“Did you bring food, Jim?” she rasped, crawling toward him._

_Spock wished to tell her he was not Jim, that he had not seen him, and wished to locate him. He wished he could leave this part of the mindspace; it was coated in honey, thicker than blood. But that was not what came out of his mouth._

_“I couldn’t, Mal. I’m sorry.”_

_The girl’s glare turned murderous, sharp in the fading daylight. “Well, then,” she said, “looks like we’ll eat you.”_

_Several other pairs of eyes blinked open, glowing in the half-darkness. Spock stumbled back towards the mouth of the cave. He had to locate Jim and hope that whatever hellscape he had fallen into, he was at less risk than Spock was currently. The band of children held him down, an emaciated Kevin Riley sitting on his legs. His arms felt like boulders as he tried to wrest himself from their grip, their hurricane emotions seeping through his skin. Fear, panic, anger, a hunger so deep it carved itself into Spock’s mind. His stomach rolled, end meal threatening to make a break for it, though Spock estimated it had been empty for at least three days._

_Mal bent over him, oily hair suffocating him._

_“Well, Jim, it seems there’s been a change of plans,” she said, smile sharp. “We can’t eat you if you’re already dead.” She backed away, motioning the rest of the children to get off of him. They gathered in a circle, faces rapt with attention as if they were watching Saturday morning cartoons._

_A mossy carpet inched over Spock’s—Jim’s—ratty sneakers, climbing the remnants of his jeans and pinning him in place. The fungus burned when it touched skin and Spock writhed as it crept up his body, relentless itching spreading under his skin._

_Jim! His mind was on fire, reeking of honey and vanilla as the fungus devoured him, closing over his mouth, eyes, ears until all he felt was fire, and the sensation of falling._

_This time, he woke in the captain’s chair, arms and legs shackled in place. The bridge of the Enterprise was empty, consoles dark. The only light came from the viewscreen, dim stars racing past, throwing beams around the room. Spock took a honey-tinged breath, suppressing his gag reflex. He must find Jim, and then a safe place within his mind. Time had passed, but he had no idea how much._

_Spock tested the shackles’ strength, straining, but the metal didn’t budge. He glanced around; there was nothing he could use to break them, the fiberglass components of the ship far out of reach. The gold shirt on his chest glowed faintly in the starlight and Spock shivered as the turbolift doors opened with a hiss. Slow, clicking footsteps came from approximately eight feet behind him. The person circled around the bridge, running fingers over scanners before stopping in front of him, a silhouette against the vastness of space. Fear washed over Spock, though he knew it was not his own._

_“Thought you’d be a starship captain, eh? That enough lightyears between you and me would leave me in the dust?” The man scoffed, stepping into a beam of starlight. Spock estimated he was between forty and fifty years old with a substantial beer gut, attired in a shabby gray t-shirt emblazoned with a faded emblem and ripped jeans, a red baseball cap tipped to the side._

_Who are you? He wanted to ask. What kind of man are you to subside in my captain’s nightmares?_

_“Eat shit,” he spat instead._

_The man tutted, leaning in close, breath foul. “You kiss your mama with that mouth, boy?” Spock’s hands began trembling, flicking blood over the armrests from split knuckles. Malicious desire pricked at him, bitterly eager. A haze darted around the bridge, then vanished as the viewscreen powered off, plunging them into complete darkness._

_“Your mama ain’t here, Jimmy,” the man jeered in his ear, breath hot. “It’s just you and me and a helping of revenge.”_

_A chill ran down Spock’s spine when the voice disappeared._

_Fiery agony took its place seconds later as the man twisted Spock’s right index finger, three sharp snaps filling the bridge. Spock heaved for breath, jerking wrists against the shackles, twisting in the captain’s chair. The man grabbed his other index finger, pushing it up, up, up, pressure building in the joint until it too gave way, bone splitting skin. Blood gushed out of the wound, cold against the pain as the man grabbed four more fingers, twisting them harshly until they snapped like pistachio shells._

_An agonized scream tore itself from Spock’s throat, wholly his own as agony washed over his body. An indulgent chuckle faded as the captain’s chair gave way._

_He was falling._

_Falling into distant vermilion sands far below him, air hot and heavy despite his enviro-suit._

_Vulcan-that-was._

_Spock tore his eyes from the planet below, from where he knew the split would emerge and swallow her whole. Two others were falling with him, in blue and yellow envirosuits. Their beacons lit up the screen in his faceplate—Jim and Sulu. They fell past Nero’s drill, the platform approaching. Wind screamed past them and he maneuvered himself above them, keeping out of sight. For once, it seemed, he was in his own body; pain lanced through his fingers as he tapped his comm badge._

_“Spock to Kirk,” he said. Static greeted him and Spock suppressed a grimace. Of course communications were down._

_He watched from above as Jim and Sulu battled on the drill. Honey coated his tongue and he swallowed thickly. It pervaded the spiced, dry desert air, tainting Jim’s mental facsimile of Vulcan. The air tasted the same, the sand already finding a way into his envirosuit. How easy would it be to stay here? To never be cold? Perhaps even fix the impossible. It was a dream world, after all. His thoughts rang in his father’s voice, a warning not to lose himself in that which could not be reclaimed. Spock turned his back on the Hall of the Ancients, on Mount Seleya. On his mother._

_Spock knew how this had to end, how this scenario would play out, despite interference. Jim and Sulu battled beneath him on the drill, tossing enemies over the side with ease. Spock leaned closer as Sulu tumbled over the edge, heart stuttering as Jim jumped after him. A spray of blood hit the drill side, the wind whisking away scraps of a yellow enviro-suit. Spock’s throat closed and he gagged for air, honey-spoiled as it was. Sulu was gone, yet Jim remained in freefall. A countdown flashed in his visor; he was quickly approaching the beaming point, but lacked the tell-tale sound of a transporter beam. The comms were eerily quiet, not even the static remaining. Cold shot through Spock’s gut, and he pushed against the barrier, tears leaking out as pain ignited his hands, bones sliding against each other._

_He must reach Jim before he became another red splatter in the sand. His mother flickered before his eyes and fell, arms outstretched, then became Jim, falling eternally. Spock shoved against the barrier, restraining the ancient urges searing his blood, honing his thoughts into a blade of pure logic, devoid of emotion. Emotional instability had led to this nightmare. He must stay in control. The tears dried on his cheeks as he recited the laws of the universe, the Prime Directive, proper docking procedures._

_The barrier gave way beneath his hands and he was falling._

_Spock angled himself into a steep dive, chasing the specks of blue and yellow far below him. He urged on gravity, throwing himself to the wind’s hands. Vulcan air rushed past him, though he could not feel it, flecks of sand sticking in his suit. He quoted Surak as he fell, half-prayer, half reminder of what he had lost and could lose. In this moment, he could not afford to be human._

_Jim’s suit beacon blinked out in his visor and Spock saw red._

_For less than a second, Spock met Jim’s eyes as they fell past each other. Jim’s pupils were blown with terror, yet a spark glimmered. Recognition, relief, determination. He set his mouth and reached toward Spock, and they fell together, hands clasped impossibly tight. Spock gritted his teeth._

_Jim was a stone in his arms, unable to move. Spock quickly secured him with his legs, then slapped the comm badge on Jim’s suit._

_“Spock to transporter room!” he said. Vulcan-that-was rushed to meet them, arms open in desolate greeting._

_“Beam us up,” Jim coughed. A gold haze appeared in Spock’s periphery._

_They dissolved in the glow of the transporter._

***

Jim groaned when they hit the transporter pad and Spock rolled off of him, removing their faceplates. The transporter matched the interior of the Enterprise, complete with a hazy recollection of Ensign Chekov behind the transporter controls, wide smile on his face. Spock noted, with some consternation, that he could see right through him, as well as the other transporter technician. He resisted the sudden urge to take Jim’s pulse, instead helping him to his feet.

 “Captain! Commander Spock!” Chekov bounced in place, throwing his arms around Jim. The captain winced, then smiled, releasing Chekov with a pat on the back. The phantom Chekov was corporeal enough for physical contact, it seemed.

“Good work, kid.” He motioned for Spock to follow him out of the transporter room, then stopped just outside the door, looking around the corridors. Though seemingly empty, uniforms would flicker in and out of their periphery, the murmurs of a phantom crew. Even the warp engines hummed in a muted way, enough to reassure the crew of their presence. Jim laid a hand on his bicep.

“Relax, Spock. We’re on the Enterprise,” Jim said. “At least, the version in my head, I think. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Spock opened his mouth to speak, but shut it when he caught honey on the air. “We must find somewhere more secure than this to discuss our…ordeals,” he said, taking in the extensive bruising on the captain’s face, just now beginning to swell. Blood beaded on a laceration on his cheek. Jim lead him deeper into the ship, nodding to phantom crew members as they passed. He punched in the passcode to his quarters and waved Spock in, adjusting the temperature. Spock lifted an eyebrow in mild surprise; though the layout of the quarters hadn’t changed, other things had. Ghostly flowers grew from vines crawling up the walls, butterflies batting lazy wings in false sunlight. In one corner, stalks of wheat swayed in their own personal gust of wind. A red convertible roared past the tiny window, blaring classical music as it went. Jim and Spock settled against the bed, Jim tossing his boots into the closet corner. Their hands were less than an inch away. Spock examined his carefully; despite their rough treatment, they were whole again, the last vestiges of pain vanishing with Vulcan. He flexed them twice, forming the ozh’esta, then the ta’al. Jim watched with interest, leaning so close Spock could smell his shampoo.

“What was that first one?” Jim mimicked the ozh’esta and Spock’s breath hitched as he counteracted the rising blush in his cheeks. Jim’s fingers wouldn’t be smooth, he theorized. No, they would be calloused from spare moments spent tinkering in Engineering and clutching a PADD stylus too hard.

“A mere symbol of…good will among Vulcans,” Spock said, uneasy. Though not strictly a lie, he did not think he could bear telling the captain the whole truth, at least at this moment. He would offer more information later, he resolved, the lie settling a little easier.

Jim hummed, then shifted closer to Spock. “What’s your hypothesis about all this?”

Spock met Jim’s eyes; turbulent emotions shifted beneath the surface, submerging and appearing too quickly for Spock to identify. “Following your altercation with Ms. Karidian, you began to show symptoms of the same affliction Ensign O’Neill suffered from. It would appear that the Doctor’s hypothesis of a virus is incorrect; I theorize you are the victim of a telepathic and empathic creature of a sort, that feeds off of negative emotion.” He broke their gaze, fixated pointedly on the wall. “The perpetual nightmares would explain the lethal hormone levels.”

Jim was silent at his admission. The red convertible made another round past the window, blaring a Beastie Boys song as it went.

“Spock, I’m won’t ask you what you saw,” Jim said, staring at the same spot on the wall Spock had been. “But why the Enterprise?”

 _Why, indeed,_ Spock thought, letting his consciousness expand to grasp the whole of the “ship.” The mental space around them rippled with the warmth that comes from the perfect summer’s day, the kind of sun that caressed one’s cheeks and coaxed out the freckles. It reminded him of his former bond with T’Pring, though that place had resembled a particularly icy tundra. He allowed himself to bask in the warmth, recalling Vulcan. Tendrils wrapped around his own consciousness, of light-hearted mischief, the thrill of deep space, of blue eyes—

Spock released the warmth abruptly and composed himself. “I do not know entirely, but I believe it to be the safest place in your mind currently, for reasons I cannot determine.”

Jim mulled over the thought, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. Spock swallowed, eyes returning to that spot on the wall. Time was of the essence, though the absence of a chronometer suggested otherwise.

“However,” Spock added. “We should find a way out of here. You were not in optimal condition when I initiated the meld, and Dr. McCoy expressed great displeasure with being the commanding officer.”

Jim chuckled at that, shaking his head. They got to their feet and headed to the bridge, tiptoeing through the corridors. Spock didn’t encounter the honey-scented presence again, but remained on his guard. Though Jim largely appeared well, it would be logical to keep his captain’s mind protected. He began constructing rudimentary shields, each flickering in and out like the crew they passed. Spock expanded the shields, then, placing them around the Enterprise as they would appear on the real Enterprise.

The bridge was unlike Spock had left it earlier in Jim’s mind. Ghostly versions of the bridge crew manned their stations; strings of Vulcan, Klingon, and Andorian echoed from the communications station with a distinctly Uhura-like impression. Other languages swirled in the air, vanishing before Spock could get a good look. Jim’s personnel file had mentioned his participation in a linguistics club, but Spock had clearly been remiss in his estimation of Jim’s language skills. Messy Vulcan phrases curled around his hands as they passed the communications station, vanishing as he tried to examine them further. Spectral impressions of Sulu and Chekov joked at the navigation and tactical stations, laughter echoing faintly around the bridge. Jim smiled as he passed them. The science station, Spock noted, was empty, the scanner set to automatic. He half expected Jim to take his place in the captain’s chair, but it was nowhere to be found, the floor smooth where it should have been.

Jim stopped in front of the viewscreen, shoulder bumping Spock’s. They stood in silence for a time as the stars passed, heading deeper and deeper into the velvet unknown. Memories flashed by as well, though Spock could not place them all. A chess game from last Thursday. An old farmhouse suffused with light. Bones’ face in reaction to something Spock had said. He snuck a glance at Jim at his side. The starlight played over Jim’s hair, highlighting gold. For once, he appeared relaxed, content to dwell in the moment as opposed to his constant whirlwind of motion on the physical Enterprise. But time was running out, Spock reminded himself.

“Shall I plot a course, Captain?” Spock prompted. Jim jumped a bit, nudged off of his train of thought. He examined the navigation controls.

“Someone’s already set one,” he said. “Doesn’t say where.”

This gave Spock pause. There was little chance it was the telepathic presence, but he would rather be certain of the destination and the setter’s identity. Jim shot a wide grin at him.

“Guess we’ve just got to boldly go,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. Something fluttered near Spock’s heart, though he declined to name it. They returned to their positions in front of the viewscreen, the stars melting away into pure black, then streaks of color. Electric blue and gold shot ahead of them in the dark, twining together like rope. Other colors joined soon after, passionate violet and an orange like a Cardassian sunrise twining with cool green and cherry red. Spock felt his hold on the meld loosening, though warmth bloomed in his chest.

“Jim,” he whispered, as Jim turned toward him, eyes alight. “I’m losing control of the—”

“—meld,” he finished, hand falling from Jim’s face. The warmth remained in the chill of Sickbay’s antiseptic-laden air. His arm tingled, as though he had been holding the meld for longer than the hour his internal sense of time informed him. Jim’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. The warmth in Spock’s side flared before he broke their gaze.

“About time, Spock,” Bones grumbled from behind him, loading a hypospray and injecting Jim in one motion. “We’ve got an emergency.”

“Good to see you too, Bones,” Jim drawled, easing himself into a sitting position with a wince. Bones scowled, then checked Jim’s vitals, hovering closer than normal. Everything checked out, though Bones didn’t hesitate to smack Jim upside the head about straining his last nerve.

“What is the emergency, Doctor?”

“Lenore Karidian. About two minutes ago, I got a garbled call from Uhura. She’s taken the Bridge,” he said. “Ship comms are down, I checked them myself. What the hell do we do now, Jim?”

Mischief gleamed in Jim’s eyes. “Mr. Spock, do you remember the emergency air vents we had installed at the last starbase?”

Though Admiral Pike had taken some convincing, Scotty had successfully persuaded his superior officers to install extra air vents on the Enterprise in cases of emergency, when some alien species or noxious gas threatened to knock out the bridge crew. Spock’s lips twitched. “Vulcans do have an eidetic memory, Captain.”

Bones glanced between the two of them, face reddening. “Absolutely not. Dammit, man, you just got shot, survived a three-hour surgery, and spent an hour with this one running around your head,” Bones growled, pointing back at Spock. “If I had the time, you’d be in that biobed for another week at least, instead of crawling around the air vents to the bridge.”

“Unfortunately, Doctor, we don’t have any time to waste,” Spock said, words burning as he said them. It would not be to the Captain’s benefit but in Spock’s experience, emergencies rarely took stock of the circumstances. “I shall attempt to access our sensor data remotely.”

He did not listen in as Bones interrogated Jim as to the details of the meld, only allowing faint relief as Jim kept most of it to himself. He was certain he had eradicated the traces of the energy creature from Jim’s mind, though it had at times attempted to attain control of his own. Vulcan control had its advantages, Spock thought, but it had been difficult enough to remain in control of his emotions as well as process all of Jim’s. The captain had a singularly dynamic mind, unlike any he had encountered before. He was reasonably certain the shields should hold, barring any more telepathic assaults.

The room lurched and Bones cursed. Spock glanced back, stabilizing the stack of PADDS on the corner desk. The room tilted even further, holding position before realigning with a snap. Jim and Spock glanced at each other. Lenore clearly wasn’t messing around. Spock suppressed a shiver; the destabilization would make their journey that much more dangerous for Jim, and given the unknown state of the bridge, it could prove fatal.

Jim leaned heavily against the desk, watching Spock work, to Dr. McCoy’s protests. Spock quickly pulled up the Enterprise blueprints on a spare PADD, tracing the shortest path through the air vents to the bridge. Dr. McCoy replicated bandages, cutting Jim’s shirt open to wind them tightly around his middle, just loose enough for Jim to breathe. Spock directed his gaze to the PADD, memorizing the route.

“Take care of him, Spock,” Bones grumbled, handing Jim a hypospray. “Knowing this idiot, he’ll split his stitches before you even get to the bridge. The hypospray contains a mild paralytic sedative to slow any bleeding and give you enough time to get him back to Sickbay.”

“I shall do my best, Doctor.”

With that, they crept out of Sickbay at a snail’s crawl, inching their way around the Enterprise.

The hatch bore a stunning resemblance to a black hole, Jim thought. Dark, and though Spock had told him how far they’d have to crawl, it seemed endless. Nobody passed them in the hall, as if they were back on the phantom Enterprise in his head. Instead, the crew stood frozen, reeking of honey, like a ship-wide game of Wax Museum. Jim avoided meeting the crew’s eyes as he and Spock made their way from Sickbay. He slumped against the wall, allowing the cool metal to sooth the burning in his back.

Spock finished fiddling with his PADD and faced Jim, exasperation clear on his face. “Captain, it is illogical for you to proceed. You have been grievously injured whereas I am in optimal condition. Therefore, I should—”

Jim waved a hand, irritation rising. “Hell no, Spock.” His ribs twinged and he sucked in a breath. If he could stand, he could save the Enterprise. He’d faced worse before, with injuries almost as severe. And he knew Spock knew it, too. Grinning to mask his stinging ribs, Jim crawled into the emergency air vents, Spock close behind.

Only two hundred meters of vents to go.

***

The Enterprise drifted listlessly through space, a silver lady past her dancing days. Sulu sat at the navigation station, watching the stars go by. The bridge was coated in silence, choked with it. He could taste it like honey on the air. Uhura’s communications station wasn’t even powered up, the energy cut as soon as Lenore had reached the bridge. She was frozen in her chair, like Chekov beside him.

And in the captain’s chair was Ms. Karidian. Her hair was a corona around her head, her pupils wide as a black hole. Only the sound of her nails drumming on the armrests and a tuneless keening filled the bridge. Her movements were rigid as she stood and looked over his shoulder. He swallowed against the overwhelming scent of honey as she grabbed his wrist in a vise.

“We’re not safe,” she hissed in a terrified whisper. “We must find my father.”

“Ms. Karidian—” Chekov shot him a warning glance when he tried to speak.

Her grip tightened. “We’ll run out of food unless we go to my father,” she snapped, releasing Sulu.

Sulu swallowed, not daring to look up from his station. To the side, he saw Uhura bend beneath her console, fiddling with a panel as silently as she could. “Where would that be, Ms. Karidian?”

Lenore jerkily faced the viewscreen, limbs trembling. “Tarsus IV.”

Chekov twisted in his seat. “But Ms. Karidian! Tarsus IV no longer—”

“Silence!” Lenore screamed, whirling towards Chekov. Sulu glanced at Uhura, who nodded to him. The panel was on the floor now, and with any luck, Uhura would be able to find her way out of the vents and to Security for reinforcements. Sulu held still, resisting the urge to jump up and give Uhura a better chance, but something about Ms. Karidian was more than a little off, even for the Enterprise’s special brand of “off.” He held still, fists trembling as Lenore punched in coordinates and locked them with a slam.

They were headed for the core of a star about to go supernova.

Sulu looked over at Chekov and in one fluid motion they vacated their stations, pinning Lenore’s arms behind her back. She clawed at Chekov, leaving two long gashes in his cheek as she slipped out of Sulu’s grasp.

“Get to the turbolift!” Sulu yelled as he tumbled over the navigation station. Lenore was like a mountain cat, scanning every direction for movement. She lunged at him and he ducked, slipping under her guard. He swung for her and she dodged before shoving him into the science station. Pain blossomed in Sulu’s ribs as he staggered to his feet. Sulu bounced on his heels; if she wanted a fight, she’d get one. She chased him across the bridge as he vaulted over the Captain’s chair, stealing precious seconds for Chekov to re-start the turbolift.

“I’m trying to save you,” Lenore raged, the edges of her voice ragged. “Don’t you understand?”

***

Sweat poured down Jim’s face as he reached the end of the vent, signaling Spock to stop. He could hear the bridge now, Lenore’s screams echoing. He reached for the opening, hauling himself through to come face to face with Uhura. Her ponytail was in disarray as she helped him through, then Spock.

“Captain Kirk!” Sulu shouted in warning as Lenore whirled. A golden haze swirled around her, like a transporter beam on the fritz. She lunged for Jim, and he froze.

Honey was overwhelming, coating his throat, his lungs, his tongue. It turned to dirt in his mouth, thin and gritty, desolate. He coughed, dizzy from the sharp pain in his ribs. Salt stung his throat and he lunged at Lenore. Even years later, he could still taste Tarsus.

The bridge became a whirl of light and sound, blood pounding in Jim’s ears. He grinned, feeling the adrenaline surge, every nerve crackling with energy. He ducked as Lenore swung at him and he swung back, dodging stations and focused solely on the golden blur before him. He was Captain of the Enterprise, he was going to save his ship, and he would finally be able to _rest._

Pain exploded behind his eyes and Jim swore he saw stars. He was on the floor, coughing again, red blood stark against metal. _Shit._

“I’m trying to save you,” Lenore sobbed, swinging at him again and missing. He rolled to the side, hissing in pain at the pressure on his ribs. Jim blearily registered Uhura calling for medical and security assistance on the bridge, static ringing through the rest of her station. Sulu and Chekov worked on the navigation panel, muttering something about a star about to go nova, but he would deal with that when his head stopped spinning. Jim crawled away from Lenore as she attacked, alternately sputtering obscenities and crying from sheer terror. The golden haze grew brighter as he retreated, willing his heart to slow.  Whatever entity was possessing her, it fed off of emotion.

“I know you’re scared,” Jim placated, looking at Spock over her shoulder. Spock nodded, once, and Jim faced Lenore’s vacant eyes again. She was like a spooked horse, one wrong word or inflection away from returning to her volatile state. Jim’s heart hammered in his chest and his mouth went dry. “But you’re on the Enterprise, Lenore. You’re safe.”

She stopped in her tracks, head cocked eerily to the side.

“Please don’t leave me alone,” she whispered, the golden haze flickering in and out before she collapsed at the hiss of a hypospray, eyes rolling back.

Spock set the spent hypo to the side, laying a hand on Lenore’s shoulder for less than a second before jerking away as if he’d touched a hot pan.

“Jim,” he said, urgently, “The energy being still has possession of her mind. For a short time, I may hold it at bay, but there is nothing we can do.”

“Are you sure? Can’t you just meld with her and drive it out of her mind like you did with me?”

Spock stiffened, gaze grim. “The sedative will only last for a short while. Furthermore, prolonged contact with her mind would be…inadvisable. The probability of damage, to both Ms. Karidian and myself, is high.”

Jim cursed, running a hand over his face. “Sulu, Chekov, Uhura, status report.”

“The Enterprise is back under control, sir, but her warp coils are damaged,” Chekov said. “Without Mr. Scott, we are doomed.”

“Communications are back up, but sensors are still offline,” Uhura said.

“We could make it to the next starbase but we’d be limping in,” Sulu added.

A hand grazed Jim’s shoulder, a ghost of a touch. “What do I do, Spock?”

Spock was quiet, observing Lenore sprawled on the floor. “I do not know, Jim,” he replied, apologetic. She was part of Jim’s demon to face. He knelt beside her, her relation to Kodos evident in her hair, her eyes, the shape of the chin. But Tarsus was in her too; gashes in her sleeves revealed a starmap of scars, pinpricks from hyposprays. It went even deeper than that, Jim knew. A fevered flush bloomed on her cheeks, a moan escaping her lips, the prelude to a nightmare. Kodos had been a cruel man, and others, had they survived Tarsus, would’ve said Jim was in the right to seek his revenge.

Yet Lenore had sought it, and to what end? To be possessed by an entity drawn to the force of her revenge with no way back? Jim shook his head as she regained consciousness, issuing a pitiful mewl.

“Captain, please,” she whispered. “Let it end. Here. Now.” She tried to push herself into a sitting position but fell back with a groan.

“Why did you do it?” Jim asked. “What could you possibly gain?”

She coughed out a laugh. “What any of us want, Captain. A chance to live.” Lenore laid a hand on his wrist, squeezing gently. “A chance to bury our demons.” Her legs trembled and honey tainted the air.

“Do me one last thing, Captain,” she said, sitting up fully through the pain. The flush in her cheeks was high, eyes inhumanly bright. Spock squeezed his shoulder in warning; the energy entity would be back soon. He motioned for the security officers Uhura had called for to lift Lenore. She faced him as if she were on stage, slipping on the guise of Ophelia for the last curtain call.

“Make me a good end.”

Her eyes burned bright as stars before she went slack, seeping golden mist. The bridge was silent.

Jim pulled out his comm. “Kirk to Transporter Room.”

“Chekov here, sir.”

He took a breath. “Beam Ms. Karidian to a patch of stars, Ensign.” He snapped the communicator shut and the bridge unfroze, falling back into motion as Lenore’s body dissolved in the transporter beam. Just out the viewscreen, she shimmered in ice crystals, disintegrating in a golden cloud as bright as fire. Something in his chest eased as the last dregs of honey disappeared from the bridge, a weight replacing it on his shoulders. She was already long gone, but something told Jim it wasn’t the last he’d see of Lenore Karidian, not really. Getting off of Tarsus had been only the first step to truly leaving the planet. Spock stepped up to Jim’s side, so close he could feel the warmth pouring off of him.

Together, they watched the stars go by.

**Author's Note:**

> I made a playlist on Spotify to go along with the fic :) 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/kaelynmh76/playlist/5f4ZRayVEf6yaoLsWwUdtT?si=Uplz7zwLSK2MlIORVP0ZFw


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